The Art of Murder

by Louis Shalako

  “Sure beats a soaker from the river.” Henri grinned, and Gilles couldn’t dispute it.

  “With a little bit of luck, I’m thinking they make a pretty good cup of coffee.” Henri hustled up the steps to where a bored gendarme rocked on his heels and calmly surveyed the onlookers without actually engaging in eye contact with anyone.

  “Bonjour, Inspector.”

  Following more slowly, Gilles returned the gendarme’s sketchy salute and entered the dark interior, blinking after the harsh light of the street outside.

  His jaw felt like a giant bee had stung him. It was surprising how quickly it came on.

  The floor was marble, as were columns flanking an arch that led into another salon. It had a formal look to it, despite or perhaps because of a blend of rococo design elements and some modern Scandinavian furniture. The whole was rendered more cheerful by well-chosen potted plants in Greek urns, and yet it had a contrived look. This was no womanly influence, turning a building of stone and mortar into a home. This was by design, and expensive design at that. The ground floor was for receptions and formal social events. It was the usual layout for a house of this class.

  “What do you think, Inspector?”

  “I’m thinking homicide.”

  “Ah, you’re such a great kidder, Inspector.” With an outstretched arm, Henri indicated what must be the entrance to an elevator. “It’s a little tight. Just push the button for the third floor.”

  “And you?” Gilles asked with raised eyebrows.

  “There must be a kitchen here somewhere.” Henri nudged him on the elbow. “Don’t be shy, sir. Oh, you are in for a wonderful time!”

  With that the rascal turned and headed for a smaller alcove to the left of the entrance hall where nothing was revealed except a small piece of blank wall and a quick turn to the right.

  ***

  “Gilles, I’m glad you’re here. We’re just about to pick the lock. Take a peek.” Rene Lavoie gestured to the keyhole, a big old-fashioned skeleton type lock.

  “Apparent suicide, eh?”

  They stood in the hallway, outside the private study of Theodore Duval. This was where the man worked on his inventions, which were legion, and where he had his private papers, including technical drawings and patent applications. This was according to Rene. He had gotten all of this from the housekeeper, who waited further questioning downstairs. Gilles remembered the name now, all right. Perhaps there was something interesting here after all.

  “What do I expect to see?” Gilles spoke in a level tone but the fact was his jaw was beginning to ache in earnest and his patience was running out.

  The psychological release of having the thing done with was over, and all he wanted now was to lie on the couch, lick his wounds, and get some rest after weeks of sleepless nights.

  “There’s a dead man in there.” Rene gave Gilles a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

  Gilles bent and peered through the keyhole. There was always a little shock of adrenalin in the guts, but it was no big emotional trauma.

  “He’s dead all right.”

  It was not a pretty picture.

  “All right, be careful, we want to examine that lock.” Rene waved forward Albert Giroux, the lab specialist who would eventually be called upon to testify as to his actions and observations here today.

  “This is a double-action lock.” Giroux thought for a second. “The key can be reinserted, and the inner cylinder unlocked by rotating in the opposite direction.”

  People locked or unlocked interior doors, but didn’t necessarily leave the key in the hole. They often took the keys with them rather than leave them in. In that sense, it was different from a jewelry box or a chest, which only had access for a key on one side.

  “Do me a favour. Can you shoot a picture through the keyhole?” Gilles shrugged.

  Giroux’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded in the affirmative. He sorted through another black bag and came up with another lens. This one required the use of a sturdy collapsible tripod, and more time. The man was maddeningly thorough, looking around inside the mechanism with the aid of special lenses, mirrors, and yet another tiny camera, all of this accompanied by the taking of extensive notes. Giroux was a mumbler, a habit which Gilles could live with if only he would hurry up.

  “There’s no other key?”

  Rene shrugged tolerantly.

  “That’s what they say.”

  Gilles nodded. Nothing was ever taken at face value.

  “Who do we think it is? Monsieur Duval, I presume?”

  Rene nodded in agreement.

  “That’s what they say.”

  Gilles studied Rene for a moment, intent upon his own physical misery.

  “So how have you been?”

  Rene gave him an odd look.

  “That hardly enters into the equation.” Gilles had the feeling he had missed something. He didn’t know how to ask, when it came to personal details from a friend.

  “Sorry. It’s just that my jaw is killing me.” Gilles pointed to his right cheek. “Dentist pulled a molar.”

  “Ah.” Rene accepted this without comment.

  There was a long silence as they watched Giroux. He went into his valise and carefully sorted through an extensive collection of skeleton-type keys in assorted sizes. A squad of investigators and the ubiquitous meat-wagon boys hovered at the far end of the hallway, unwilling to engage in pleasantries with the higher echelons. Perhaps it was conversation with Giroux they feared. Photographs, fingerprints, blood-spatters, dead bodies, this was what interested them. Mere locks were beneath their interest, somebody else’s department, but of course Giroux was a bit of a bug on the subject of mechanical security devices.

  The odd rumble of voices was easily ignored. A quick burst of laughter from down there drew a quick glance, but they were all familiar with the routine by now. Hushed and reverent silence for the dead would have been too much to expect.

  “This one should do it. This model should turn easily.” There came a sound and Giroux withdrew the key. “Wait.”

  Suppressing a growl, Gilles watched the man take another set of his damnably peculiar photos, and while he admired his determination to leave absolutely nothing to chance, there was a dead person with their face blown off in the next room. Finally Giroux’s gloved hand gripped the knob just so, theoretically preserving any prints that might be there, and he turned the knob with authority. There would either be no prints, or more likely, a million prints. It was that kind of a day.

  “After you, gentlemen.” Gilles nodded thanks.

  Giroux was used to faint praise, and immediately set to work examining the frame, the latch, the striker plate, and the inner portion of the mechanism. Clearly Giroux loved his work. Gilles wondered why the key wasn’t in the lock. Men especially, kept them on a chain attached to their belt. Surely the housekeeper must have a key.

  A man’s is defined by his actions, and in some ways they were a lot alike. In his own case, he would have shown up on the job the day after someone sawed a leg off. The word on Giroux was that he had never missed a day’s work in seventeen years, except of course for his stint in the Army.

  Gilles wondered if Giroux suffered nightmares.

  Chapter Two

  A grisly scene

  Rene held up a hand, and the more eager of the specialists, notably the fingerprint fellow, froze in the doorway.

  It was a grisly scene. There was a suicide note.

  ‘I love you…’ The next two words were illegible.

  “Damn it.”

  Gilles tried to avoid the major blood spatters. The note was incomplete. There was a large-calibre pistol on the floor in front of the decedent. There were enough blood spatters to satisfy anybody. His legs were sprawled out in front of him, and his arms hung limp.

  “I’m sorry…” The words on the paper had been written in haste, or a state of extreme agitation.

  The pen was ri
ght there.

  “Stuck it in his moth and pulled the trigger.” This from the fingerprint man, whom Gilles thought was Boulanger.

  They ignored him.

  “If he stuck it in his mouth, it sort of rules out an accident.” Giroux’s dry humour was not without merit.

  “Well, well, well.” Rene raised an eyebrow at Gilles. “What do you think?”

  “It certainly looks like a suicide.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking.” Rene waited.

  There was a long silence, as Gilles took in the drawing tables, shelves with heaps of rolled-up drawings, strong overhead lights, a small couch and coffee table over in front of the windows. He strolled around the far parts of what was a fairly large room, keeping out of the way of the others while they worked at documenting the scene.

  “Interesting.”

  “What is it, Gilles?” Rene came over and had a look.

  “It’s a book on hypnotism.”

  Gilles looked around with a speculative look.

  “Monsieur Duval was a very wealthy man.” Rene nodded in agreement.

  “He was famous. What are you thinking, Gilles?”

  “We had better cover our asses on this one, no matter what.” Gilles stood looking down at the book on the coffee table. “This was a room for work. What is this book doing here?”

  Rene turned and beckoned at the doorway.

  “All right gentlemen, we are treating this as a crime scene until further notice.”

  The silent and invisible cheer that went through the room was almost palpable. It had been a slow week, and this looked like a deviation from the norm, if nothing more.

  “Take the pockets.” Another fellow, Le Bref, started going through them one by one, after a few quick snapshots by the photo technician.

  “Here are the keys.” Le Bref jingled them, and there were one or two dark skeleton-type keys on there.

  “What are you thinking, Gilles?’

  “Two things, first, if there was only one key, he might very well keep it on him. But, why didn’t he finish the note? And why lock the door at all? It was his house.”

  “A little unusual. Was he hurried for some reason? Ten pages would have been more like it.” Rene looked around the room. “Huh.”

  “Interesting.”

  Henri poked his head in the door.

  “Inspector?”

  “Oui?”

  “There’s coffee and cake in the salon, if you’d like to meet the rest of the family.”

  His eyes met Rene’s.

  “You want me to take this?”

  “Yes, I’ll be down in a few minutes. Gilles…I go in for my operation tomorrow.”

  Maintenon’s jaw almost dropped, sending him a sharp jab of pain, but he quickly recovered. Of course! Rene had lung cancer. People told him things and sometimes it was like it went in one ear and out the other. It was like a trap door opening up underneath him sometimes, for Rene was an old friend. His own misery was blinding him to the sufferings of others.

  Slapping him on the arm, Gilles turned and marched off to find the elevator, although he was sure there must be a proper set of stairs somewhere in the building. What must Rene be feeling right now?

  “Second floor, at the front.” Gilles was tempted to follow Henri and use the stairs, but to be afraid of the dentist, something he had been moaning about for weeks, and then to refuse to use the elevator might be to lose the respect of the men, and that was simply unnecessary. It was just a stuffy little elevator, and not that bad, really.

  It sure beat lung cancer.

  ***

  When Gilles entered the second floor salon, the gentlemen rose as if to shake hands, while the women remained seated.

  An athletic young man of stocky build and with shoulders as big as Andre Levain’s began the introductions.

  “This is Hermione Fontaine, our housekeeper.” The lady nodded politely and Gilles nodded in return.

  “First of all, who are you, sir? And who discovered the body?” At that moment, Henri arrived, and behind him came another servant pushing a cart laden with coffee and cups, and something under a polished silver dome.

  That would be the cake, then.

  “I am Alexis Ferrauld, Monsieur Duval’s bodyguard. I found the door locked, and when I looked in through the keyhole…well, you know.”

  “Do you live on the premises?”

  “Yes.” Alexis went on. “Third floor. It’s the back bedroom, the hallway on the right.”

  Nodding, Gilles pulled his notebook and pen out of a side jacket pocket as Henri hastened to do the same. Gilles wrote the names down as Alexis continued with his story. It was one of those houses that required a floor plan in the case notes. Henri had an air of repressed triumph about him, but perhaps Gilles was mistaken.

  “I knocked a couple of times, as it was most unusual for Monsieur Duval not to be available first thing in the morning. He considered it his most productive time of the day.”

  “Ah.” Gilles scribbled and waited.

  They would tell their story in their own way, and it was sometimes best to just let it flow naturally.

  “I called for Madame Fontaine. Emilie, the housemaid came as well. After seeing for themselves, we were going to break the door down, but Frederic, he is our driver, insisted upon calling the police.” He gave a nod to an older man, very grave and looking like he was recovering from a bout of crying. “He was right, of course.”

  “Yes, very commendable. The normal reaction is to break the door down. You did the right thing. Who is Monsieur Duval’s next of kin? Are they in town here?”

  Alexis clammed up, shrugged helplessly, and looked to Hermione for support.

  She was angry, it was at the forefront of her grief.

  “He had a brother. His sister lives in Martinique.”

  “Had?” Gilles waited, pen poised over the pale blue lines ruled upon the notebook page. “We’ll need to speak to Emilie as well.”

  “That’s me, sir.” The housemaid bobbed her head and retreated to the far corner of the room, where she stood in a formal pose of attention, chin up, very straight and with hands comfortably clasped at her waist.

  Her eyes looked off into some vast and empty space known only to the servile classes.

  “Monsieur Alain lives in town, yes, sir. I will get you the address.” Her lips were tight, and she was struggling with the emotions.

  Alexis shrugged, giving Gilles an expressive look, as if to imply that he could go no further at the moment. It was a complex set of relationships, nothing new here. He could almost fill in the blanks. Duval was a self-made man. His brother wasn’t, so much, and Alexis had some professional discretion.

  “We will need a proper identification.” This was from Henri, who had a habit of sticking an oar in, unwelcome as it was sometimes, although it was useful at others.

  Henri was available, and Andre would turn up when he could. Gilles let it drop momentarily.

  “And you, sir?” The other gentlemen extended a hand.

  “I am Jules Charpentier, plant manager for all domestic operations.” Gilles gave it a brief shake, noting it was a professional handshake with little pressure. “I arrived shortly after nine.”

  It was pro forma, and while a bit damp, the man did not try to crush his hand in an effort to impress. He knew better. To gain an impression, Gilles smiled faintly and extended his hand to Alexis, whose hand was dry and hard, and very strong. This man could break bones if he squeezed, Gilles understood that instantly, but the man was aware of his strength and surprisingly gentle.

  Frederic, who had subsided into his seat again, rose with alacrity and came up to shake with Gilles. He squeezed Gilles’ hand, pumping it up and down quickly and for slightly too long.

  “Pleased to meet you.” It was an Americanism, and an unfortunate attempt at pleasantry. “Frederic Maillot. I have been Monsieur Duval’s…I was his chauffeur for nine years.”

  He clammed up suddenly, eyes mois
t with tears, and wordlessly returned to his seat, where he sat looking out the window, seemingly oblivious to his surroundings. Stiff as a board, his shoulders suddenly slumped and he allowed himself some visible emotions.

  “I can identify…the body for you.” It was the other woman in the room, a tall, willowy blonde girl who looked vaguely familiar.

  She burst into tears and covered her face with her hands. Madame Fontaine clamped her lips shut in disapproval and looked away in a decisive gesture.

  “And she is…?” Gilles asked Alexis in a quiet tone.

  “A very good friend of Monsieur Duval’s.” Alexis’ eyes bored into Gilles’ in some unspoken message of importance. “This is Yvonne.”

  The housekeeper spoke up.

  “She is Yvonne Verene. She is a nightclub singer.” There were certain implications in her statement, polite disapproval being foremost among them.

  It didn’t ring too many bells, but Gilles might have heard the name, or read it in the paper or something.

  “Thank you.” Gilles and Henri scribbled, the sound of quiet sniffles in the background adding urgency to their efforts.

  “That’s quite all right, Mademoiselle Verene. It is best in these cases to have the most immediate next of kin do the identification.”

  “Is it…bad?” It was the housekeeper.

  She shuddered at the memory of what she had seen.

  “Bad enough.” Gilles understood the nature of grief, and would make it as easy as possible for the survivors.

  His eyes flicked up and met hers.

  “It is pretty much as you would imagine it.”

  In the back of his mind he was wondering why he had been called in at all, but there was no such thing as the routine suicide of a very rich man, and they must fill in the blanks as best they could and leave no question unasked, or unanswered.

  ***

  Henri was handy in his own way, and produced paper enough for them to write statements of what they had seen and done.