Loving Hands/Elegant Fingers: Two Inspector Monde Tales of Strange and Terrible Adventures (The Inspector Monde Mysteries)

by John Booth

  Loving Hands/Elegant Fingers

  Two Inspector Monde Tales of Strange

  and

  Terrible Adventures

  By

  John Booth

  Copyright ©2011 John Booth.

  First electronic edition published by PfoxChase Publishing

  Published in the United States of America with international distribution.

  Cover Design by John Booth

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the copyright owner except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors’ imaginations or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication: To my family

  Loving Hands

  I

  Three prostitutes stood under a Parisian street lamp trying not to let the chill get to them. It was April in Paris and it was cold, especially if you weren’t wearing much in the way of clothes.

  The three girls had known each other for many months. They shared the same pimp who would use his belt on them if they stepped out of line. He always hit them somewhere the marks wouldn’t show. The girls tried hard to be good. It didn’t stop them getting a beating though, if Nicolas thought they were slacking on the job.

  Caren and Sabria were experienced and hardened. They were seventeen and Sabria first took up the life at fourteen years of age, while Caren had been on the game for almost two years. The third girl in the group was Jackie, and she’d been working as a prostitute for less than a year. She was sixteen and sometimes felt sick afterwards.

  The girls were too young to work in the brothels. No brothel keeper would risk a charge of procuring sex with a child. The penalties were far too stiff. So the girls worked the dangerous dark streets instead. Thus, Paris maintained its reputation for standards in sexual matters while making life harder for the very girls they claimed to want to protect.

  Jackie was thinking about her father and mother. She was a bright and sensitive girl brought up by alcoholics. Her father raped her when she was twelve. Her mother was in the bed at the time, passed out in a drunken stupor.

  Nicolas was kind and considerate compared to her father, and Jackie didn’t regret running away from home. Tonight was the first time she seriously wondered if she might have made a mistake.

  This was the girls’ first night out on the streets for two weeks. After two prostitutes had been murdered, their throats cut and bodies mutilated, Nicolas kept the girls in his apartment, saying it was too dangerous for them to be out. But two weeks is a long time if you are a pimp with a serious drug habit. He decided to send them out this night regardless of their safety. Jackie protested and nursed the bruises he gave her for talking back.

  The total of murders in the area had risen to four while the girls stayed safe in the apartment. The press called the killer, Paris Pierre, and comparing him to Jack the Ripper, the monster who stalked the streets of London in the nineteenth century. Paris Pierre, however, lacked the flamboyance of his English counterpart.

  Some of the press moaned that the French psychopath lacked the sense of style and panache the English showed in such matters. The girls were only prostitutes after all; it was not as if important people were dying.

  According to Nicolas, they should be able to make money easily. He said that, with so many prostitutes off the streets, they would have their pick of the punters and be able to charge higher prices.

  It didn’t work out that way. The men that usually drove slowly around the streets of Paris, seeking a need their wives or girlfriends could not satisfy, were absent. This wasn’t surprising because every police officer that could be cajoled into working overtime was out trying to catch the killer.

  The Police Commissioner had said the number of dead girls was unacceptable and the culprit would be caught very soon. If not, there would be new management in the homicide division.

  “You’d tell the police if I went missing?” Jackie asked her friends. The thought of her body rotting in a disused alleyway disturbed her.

  “Paris Pierre isn’t going to kill you,” Caren said and sniggered, “Unless it’s because you give him bad head.”

  “I’m serious. I don’t want my body rotting somewhere, being eaten by rats. Nobody but you would miss me if I went missing. You’d tell the police, wouldn’t you?”

  “Nicolas would miss your income,” Sabria said as she flicked the stub of her cigarette out into the road. Its burning end traced a red arc through the air. “Young ones like you get the most clients.”

  “Yes, the sick ones,” Caren agreed.

  “Whatever,” Sabria replied. “If one of us doesn’t get a client soon, Nicolas is going to take it out of our hides. He can be really mean with that belt.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t lost it for him,” Jackie said. She knew Sabria was good at getting rid of Nicolas’s possessions she felt he would be better off without. In her own way, Sabria protected Nicolas from his drug habit and kept him alive.

  “I lost his last belt just before you joined us, Chicken. The new one is much worse.”

  “Is that guy waving at us?” Caren asked, peering down the unlit street.

  “Yeah, it’s someone in a duffle coat,” Sabria said scrunching her eyes up so she could see more clearly. “It’ll bet you he wants Chicken. They always want the youngest first. Go over to him, Chicken, and see if he has money. We don’t want him getting you for free, so keep your distance until you see some money.”

  “I’m not going until you both promise to call the police if something happens to me,” Jackie said stubbornly. She thought she recognized the man as one of her clients, but she wasn’t going to tell the others until she had her promise.

  “Look, he’s waving again. If you don’t go now, you’ll lose him. He’s probably scared shitless of being caught by one of our heroic gendarmes,” Caren said sarcastically.

  “Not until you promise me,” Jackie repeated.

  “All right,” Sabria said wearily. “We promise, if you don’t come back we’ll tell the police you’re missing and give them a description of Robin Hood over there. Is that enough?”

  “Sure,” Jackie said and smiled. She ran off towards the client as fast as her high heels would carry her. She was certain she’d met him before and had lost any fear of the encounter.

  “How much?” the man asked from the shadow of his hood.

  The negotiation was over before it started as the man accepted Jackie’s first price. She wondered if she should have asked for more. Perhaps Nicolas had been right and the lack of women on the streets had driven up the price. He was going to pay her twice as much as she usually got, and following the custom of the streets, he had already paid her half.

  “Not here,” he told her as she moved against him and sank to her knees. “The police are everywhere and if we get caught my wife will kill me.”

  “Where then?” Jackie asked wearily. If she had a franc for every time she heard a punter say something like that, she wouldn’t need to be out on the streets at all.

  “There’s an abandoned warehouse
at the end of the street,” the punter told her. Jackie knew it and nodded her agreement. Provided they stayed at the edges of the ground floor, it was safe enough. The boards in the center of the rooms had rotted through and it was a long fall to the basement below.

  The punter pushed a creaking door open. The owners of the building regularly boarded up the doors and windows, but they never stayed blocked for long.

  As soon as she was inside the man grabbed her by the hair and started pulling her through the building. Jackie kicked and screamed as the man dragged her, but she couldn’t get any purchase to break free. The punter said nothing as he pulled at her hair with increasing urgency.

  When they reached the room, he kicked its door closed and forced her to her knees. Jackie felt the wisest thing to do was get on with the job and fumbled for the buttons of his fly. He struck her across her face so hard that she slid out across the rotting wooden floor.

  Jackie was very frightened. If he didn’t want sex then it was likely he wanted her life instead. She turned away and scrambled towards the door. The man swept her feet from under her and forced her flat on the floor. Jackie began to cry, but she wasn’t crying with fear, as the bastard had succeeded in making her angry.

  She remembered meeting with her father before she left home. He stood in front of her, naked from the waist down and demanded she use her mouth on him. She kicked him so hard between his legs he dropped to the floor poleaxed. She grabbed her coat and ran for her life, but not before kicking him one last time in the head, just for luck.

  The man took hold of Jackie’s shoulders and dragged her to her feet. She went limp to give him the idea she had given up. He relaxed his grip and she shoved him as hard as she could into the center of the room.

  Her client snarled as he fell. He stood up and stamped his foot in anger. It proved to be a mistake as his foot went straight through the rotten floor and became caught in the splintered edges of the floorboards. He struggled trying to free it.

  Jackie caught her breath and watched as his other leg broke through the floor when he tried to pull his first foot out. Within a few seconds, he had fallen through to his waist. Floorboards came away in his hand as he struggled to free himself.

  The man stretched out his arms in appeal. “No one ever comes here. I’ll die if you don’t help me.”

  “Serves you right, Paris Pierre.”

  The man looked shocked. “I’m not him. I just like my sex a bit rough. I wasn’t really going to hurt you. You have to believe me. Help me out, or at least tell someone I’m here.”

  “Go to hell!” Jackie said as she walked to the door.

  “Please, please come back,” the man called out as she shut the door.

  Jackie leaned against the wall and shook with reaction.

  II

  Charles Monde sat on the hard wooden seat of the confession box and considered his life. At that moment, it seemed that it had been worth little and he had achieved nothing.

  Father Francis Dubois sat in the box alongside and looked at his old friend from the little window that separated them, feeling real concern.

  “The only sin you have committed since the last time we spoke is the sin of self-pity, Charles. Is this because your latest assistant has left you? Considering what you do, I find it amazing that anybody stays with you as long as a week.”

  Monde smiled. “No. It is true that I miss Louis, though he has not yet left the station. He has been transferred to the homicide squad until the position in Lyon becomes available.” The Inspector paused for a second as he collected his thoughts.

  “I will be working with him again for a little while. The Commissioner has asked that I assist in the search for this murderer, Paris Pierre, as the newspapers call him.”

  Father Dubois crossed himself. “Surely they do not think he is a supernatural being?”

  “There had been no suspicion of such a thing until the last murder. My esteemed colleague, Inspector Morin, located a suspect he was convinced was the killer. However, the man they believed to be the killer suffered a nasty accident last week and is in hospital. Meanwhile, the murders continue.”

  “Is Inspector Morin the man you’ve described to me as a ‘jackass’ on a number of occasions?”

  “The very same man, Francis, the very same,” Inspector Monde conceded.

  “So what is bothering you, Charles? Is it this Lord Dark creature?”

  Inspector Monde said nothing for a long while. Father Dubois was about to repeat the question when the Inspector answered.

  “Should I quit my job and leave Paris? This creature has already killed four innocents to bring himself to my attention. It is only a miracle it wasn’t five. Should I run away to protect my friends from this creature’s idea of fun?”

  “Do you think he will strike again?” Father Dubois asked as he looked around the coffin-like confessional box. If someone wanted to kill him, the confession box would be ideal.

  “I suspect he will stay away until he thinks I have dropped my guard. Then he will kill those whose deaths he believes will hurt me most.”

  “You plan to do nothing to stop him?”

  “Of course I plan to stop him. There are people keeping their eyes and ears open looking for any sign he is in Paris. If they see or hear anything, I will know within the hour. I have arranged with the Commissioner that all police reports are scanned for signs of Lord Dark’s hand. I have even set up one or two surprises if he tries to strike in the places I anticipate.”

  “Then why should you flee the city?”

  “Because if he was to kill someone like you, I would feel it was my fault,” Monde said quietly.

  “It is not your fault that forces of evil exist and that God has set you on a path to fight and destroy them,” Father Dubois said with conviction.

  “I am not sure I believe in God.”

  “And you come to confession to tell me this? Charles, you are a man of many contradictions.” Father Dubois leaned back on his hard wooden seat.

  “Charles, I cannot set you any penance. You have done many terrible things, but always for the right reason. If you were to die tomorrow, I do not doubt that heaven would open up its doors to you without the slightest hesitation, even if you went there just to tell God he does not exist.”

  “I give you absolution. Go in peace, my friend and remember they have some very good priests over in Notre Dame, if you should ever feel like a change.”

  Father Dubois slid the little window shut and Inspector Monde got up to leave. He felt much more cheerful as he left the beautiful church of Saint-Gervais. Father Dubois was right. He wasn’t responsible for the actions of Lord Dark. He just had to make sure he found Dark before he struck again.

  Inspector Monde felt more than a little uncomfortable as he entered the room set up for the team dealing with the Paris Pierre murders. Black and white photographs of the bodies of the victims had been pinned to the walls and large manila folders sat beneath each set of photographs containing details of that particular victim.

  A large-scale map of the center of Paris was pinned to the far wall. It had a number of red pins stuck in it, each one relating to a murder. Inspector Monde had never seen this approach before.

  Inspector Morin had visited the United States of America and this was the way the FBI tackled such things. Inspector Monde thought the room was both impressive and oppressive. A man could think better with a blank wall and a cup of coffee in his hand. All the photographs on the wall did was remind a man that this particular killer was a monster.

  The reason Inspector Monde felt embarrassed at entering the room was that Louis Bernache sat at one of the desks painstakingly typing up hand written notes.

  Bernache rose to his feet, pushing his chair back with a squeak. “They told me you were joining the case, Inspector. It is good to see you again,” he said holding out his hand.

  “I have only been down the corridor, Louis. You could have dropped by anytime,” Monde pointed out as they shook
hands. It would have been obvious to the densest person that Bernache had been avoiding him.

  Bernache waved his arms around the room, trying to cover up his embarrassment. “This case has kept me incredibly busy. The Inspector, Inspector Morin that is, has been running us ragged. Especially after Joseph Gauthier got away from the men tracking him on the night he was injured.”

  “I heard something about that. They found him on the street with severe injuries to his legs, as I understand it.”

  “That’s right. At first the Inspector thought he had been attacked by a girl, you know a prostitute, but the doctors say his injuries are more consistent with a beating or a fall,” Bernache replied.

  The Inspector walked over to the map. “Show me where he was found on this map, Louis.”

  “There’s no point. It’s a dead end. Another prostitute was found dead, killed in exactly the same manner two days ago, while this Gauthier man was in a hospital bed.”

  “Humor me, Louis. I am an Inspector of the Police, after all.”

  Bernache pointed out the location on the street where Joseph Gauthier had been found and the Inspector studied the map for some minutes. While he was doing so, Inspector Morin walked into the room and stood quietly behind Monde, waiting to be noticed.

  “I doubt you will discover the killer by studying my back, Antoine. Though I could be wrong,” Inspector Monde said dryly without turning.

  “And you are not going to find him by digging up a grave at midnight,” Inspector Morin replied sourly. “I have raised objections with the Chief Inspector about your presence on this case, Charles.”

  “Thank you for telling me that, Antoine. I am sure the Chief Inspector will pass on your request to refuse my help right up to the Commissioner, whose idea it was in the first place.”

  Inspector Monde turned around and faced Inspector Morin. “Did you discover where this man, Joseph Gautier received his injuries?”