The Art of Murder

by Louis Shalako

  “Your patient is dead.” Gilles was having another one of those days when life didn’t seem worth living.

  Having made the appointment, and having explained over the phone what it was about, the doctor’s reaction was a little bit unexpected.

  The man shrugged expressively.

  “I would like to reassure you that there is no question of any wrongdoing on your part, and no one is suggesting that there was anything you could have done to avert this tragedy.”

  He shrugged again, not meeting their eyes, but straying everywhere, from the documents on his desk to the door, the window, and the floor. As might be expected, the room was expensively furnished, with scale models of human bones, including a section of spinal column on the desktop and several colourful posters of the human anatomy on the walls.

  “We were wondering if there was some reason for despondency. Was he suffering from some mortal disease? Did he have something that might have brought long suffering, or a lingering and painful end?”

  “Was he on dope? They autopsy says no, but they have been fooled before.” Levain was trying to help, but to no avail.

  The doctor would take some convincing.

  “If I thought it would do any good, I would just get a court order.” Gilles was bluffing, but the doctor didn’t know that. “I would of course prefer cooperation, as it is usually more trustworthy.”

  The doctor’s face reddened, and he glared at the walls, still not making eye contact.

  “Your patient was rich, and successful, and very talented. He had a nice life. Why would he throw it all away on a whim? I understand there is a stigma attached to mental illness. Nice people don’t like to talk about it. But it happens in all the best families, in fact in my opinion it can happen in any family. You could even say it does happen in every family. I’m not suggesting that this was the case with Theodore Duval. If there is anything that you can do to help us, it would be greatly appreciated.”

  Taking this as his cue, Levain spoke up in a completely different tone.

  “Searches can be very disruptive.”

  “Pardon?” The doctor was shaken by the thought. “What do you mean?”

  “Oh, you know. It’s a normal business day, perhaps a day when the waiting room is chock full of the literati, the intelligentsia, you know—the movers and the shakers of our fine society. I’m referring to the bourgeoisie, Doctor.” Levain had clearly been reading some leftist leaflets, while he was sitting on the toilet or something. “A posse of gendarmes show up, usher every damned one of them out the door, perhaps with some inconvenience or embarrassment to them, writing down all their names and addresses, and then proceed to tear the place apart looking for evidence of a homicide…”

  “Andre!” Gilles was apparently livid, although he approved of the tactics.

  “Well, Inspector, if he can’t tell us anything about Monsieur Duval, then he should certainly be ethical enough not to let on that he was, or at least might have been, ah, murdered. Right, Inspector? Our secrets would be safe with him.”

  “Did—did you say homicide?” Doctor Hachet’s voice cracked and he trembled with either rage or fear, it was hard to say which.

  Levain went silent, and Gilles just as silently blessed his impetuousness. It was one reason why they kept him around.

  “I would appreciate it if you kept that to yourself, doctor—since you seem to be able to keep the secrets of your patients. You’re not providing them with narcotics, are you? All in a day’s work, eh?”

  Gilles’ mild manner could not obscure the steel that lay within, although there would be hell to pay if this ever got out.

  “But there was nothing!” The doctor pulled out a crisp white linen handkerchief and mopped a profusely sweating brow. “Oh, God.”

  They waited, more certain now.

  “All right.” He was about to speak again, but thought better of it.

  He might have cursed them, or been tempted to, and most likely preferred to stand on his professional dignity.

  The doctor got up, left the room, and closed the door behind him.

  “Where’s he going?” Andre cracked an evil grin, but Gilles just shook his head. “Was it something I said?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to call the commissioner.” At this remark, some of Levain’s humour evaporated.

  There wasn’t much point in talking, and they listened for footfalls in the hallway. Sure enough, when Hachet returned, he had a thick sheaf of papers in a file-folder in his hand. He walked around his desk and fell into the chair.

  “Theo was my patient for many years. He was a remarkably healthy individual. There was never any complaint or suggestion of problems with his mental hygiene, and he suffered from no mortal or painful diseases. This file is full, and complete, and you will return it to me after you copy it or whatever you plan to do.”

  The doctor did not open it, but spent a long moment staring down at it. Looking up directly into Maintenon’s eyes, he shoved it across the desk in a decisive move. There was some unspoken promise in the look he gave them.

  “Thank you, Doctor Hachet, and this will be returned to you in a day or two. We will never mention this unless we have no recourse but to make use of it. And I meant what I said. Please forget the word homicide was even mentioned today.” Gilles held his gaze a little longer, and the doctor swallowed.

  Then he spoke, leaving no doubt as to his meaning.

  “Inspector Maintenon, if someone killed Theo Duval, I want you to find them. You will arrest them, and try them in a court of law. And when that day comes, I would very much like to attend at their execution, if such a thing is permitted.” His face was very long somehow, as if grief and anger combined with gravity to pull his loose flesh towards the floor. “Theo Duval was a very good man, and insofar as it is possible between doctor and patient, he was also my friend.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange, Doctor Hachet.” Gilles thought a moment. “And please forgive my impulsive friend here, but it was true enough what he said. And don’t put it past us. Thank you for your help.”

  “Get out of my office.” Doctor Hachet crossed his arms in front of him and glared at them as if there was to be no tomorrow.

  Levain was careful not to smile. The man had his dignity to consider, and he wasn’t a bad sort, when you understood his awkward position. Without a word, they did exactly that.

  ***

  On reading of the death of Theo Duval in the newspaper, Charles Fauquier phoned police out of a sense of duty, of outrage, and possibly to head off some bad publicity. Fauquier and Sons was an old and established gunsmith, with world-wide renown. The papers were full of the affair for a short time, but had inevitably moved on to something else.

  “I sold Monsieur Duval a shotgun, and I understand that he owned several other weapons.”

  Gilles nodded as he took notes.

  “Do you know if he possessed a 1911 model Colt forty-five calibre automatic pistol?” Levain was handling the questions.

  “Yes, I believe he did. In any case, I serviced such a weapon for him several years ago.” The man sighed, in perfect understanding of the nature of the question.

  Hopefully, from his point of view, his firm’s name might be kept out of the affair.

  “There is no suggestion of wrong-doing on your part.” Gilles reassured the fellow in the interest of continued cooperation, although Fauquier had contacted them rather than the other way around.

  “What sort of work did you do?” Levain had a professional interest, and always enjoyed his time on the range in annual competitions and in the odd practice session.

  It was like he just never had time these days, but in pistol shooting, knowing your weapon, practically living with it, gave a competitive edge.

  “Yes. I would have to check our records, but as I recall, it was just cleaning and checking for serviceability.” The man nodded to his assistant, a small, balding fellow of about forty years of age.

  The man turned and h
eaded for the door leading to offices and the workrooms.

  “I believe it was a gift from someone, an old soldier who admired him. It’s just an impression, and I can’t recall the exact words.”

  “Did he talk about any threats? Sometimes people mention that sort of thing.”

  Fauquier shook his head.

  “Nothing as far as that.” His eyes went up and back a bit, blinking a couple of times as he tried to recall. “I don’t think that he had ever fired it. As I recall, it was extremely dirty inside. I think it was a pilot, maybe.”

  “Any names mentioned? Did he have anyone with him?”

  “None that I can recall. He was alone when he came in.” More than anything, he seemed to regret calling them.

  “What about the shotgun? What kind?” Levain must have an endless series of questions all lined up in his head, a good trait.

  “It was a sporting weapon, with decorative plaques, all in silver and engraved with his initials.”

  The gun had been kept in a room of sporting trophies, and in the opinion of the police expert who had examined it, had never been fired.

  “Do you know if he ever used it?”

  An expressive shrug was the only answer he could give.

  “It might have been.”

  “How well did you know Monsieur Duval?” Gilles stuck in an oar for a moment.

  “Not very well, really. He was famous enough in his own way, and you tend to remember a customer like that.”

  “I see.” This fit the pattern well enough.

  An expensive shotgun, hung up on a wall with other weapons, a fairly common high-status decoration. And a rugged, dependable gun with plenty of stopping power kept according to the housekeeper in a desk drawer in his business office, which was also on the same floor as the studio. Basically, they were taking the maid’s and her word for it. Alexis said the same thing. It was one of many troubling aspects of the case. Assuming they were innocent, they had no reason to lie. The question was who else might have known about it, besides them.

  “A gun like that, the shotgun, was really more of a status symbol, although there are definitely people who use them regularly.” Fauquier understood his customers very well. “Some of our customers enjoy competitions, and hunting ducks, geese, pheasants. All that sort of thing.”

  They weren’t hunting for the pot, his attitude seemed to imply.

  “And the pistol?” Levain brought him back to the point.

  “Not a piece of sporting equipment.”

  “Do you sell them?”

  “The Colt? No, but we can order one in, and I have a couple of used ones. I pay better than a pawnbroker, especially if the weapon is in good condition, and has some interest to collectors.”

  They listened politely as he explained the history of the big Colt, which had been proven in service by the U.S. Army in the Philippines against rebel Moro tribesmen. Apparently they had good morale, and used drugs to combat pain and fear of injury.

  His assistant returned with a receipt in his hand. Fauquier gave it to Andre, who stuck in between the pages of his notebook.

  “Would you like to fire one?”

  Gilles, already concluding that there wasn’t much here said no, but Andre wanted to try it. Fauquier unlocked a cabinet and took a heavy black gun out and selected a box of shells of the appropriate calibre. This one looked very clean, and Fauquier removed a paper tag on a string.

  He handed it to Andre.

  “Heavy.” He passed it to Gilles for a routine look.

  Gilles nodded and gave it back to Fauquier after operating the slide and looking through it.

  “A very big gun.” Andre and Fauquier nodded.

  “These aren’t a common item, but we sell a few.”

  There were still quite a number of them around, in Gilles’s experience, as U.S. servicemen had pawned any number of them at war’s end. They turned up from time to time in homicide and other investigations. All of that stopping power was something that just couldn’t be argued with.

  With the assistant left in charge of the store, Gilles followed them into the basement shooting range. It didn’t hurt to indulge the hired help when they had earned a reward, and Andre was just itching to have a go.

  The first report made Gilles flinch.

  “Unbelievable! Nom de Dieu.” Upon Andre’s look, Gilles gave him a nod and he turned and emptied the clip at the target at the far end.

  Even though he knew better what to expect after the first shot, being beside the thing was formidable. The noise and the concussion were impressive, and caused him to flinch with each report.

  “Sacre bleu.” Andre seemed impressed.

  “Hmn. That’s good shooting.” Fauquier gave Levain an appraising look.

  Gilles squinted and saw a tight grouping of black holes in the target in the vicinity of the upper chest. Thanking their host, the two men left the building and went down the street a ways, pausing by the car but not opening up just yet.

  “All right, Inspector, what are you thinking?”

  “It’s hard to believe that no one heard that thing go off.”

  “Interesting.”

  “That’s my line.” Gilles grinned and slapped his thigh. “But it’s an interesting discovery. We shall have to test my little theory, if we get the opportunity.”

  Henri rolled down the window.

  “Are you folks getting in, or what?” The ebb and flow of pedestrian traffic swirled around them.

  “In.” Levain reached for the handle.

  Gilles nodded pleasantly at this response. Andre opened the door for Gilles, and then went around to the other side. When he got in, there was this look on the other man’s face.

  “Are they all lying to us, then?” Other than that, Maintenon would go no further.

  Chapter Eleven

  “What’s next?”

  “What’s next, Inspector?” Andre had a pleased air about him.

  The excitement of trying out a new toy had done him some good.

  “I think Monsieur Charpentier is next on the list.” Gilles stared out the side window as the cityscape flowed past in silent counterpoint to his thoughts. “He went to the house fairly often, and he is in a position to know something about the man and his world.”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  Gilles gave him a sharp glance, but Andre was looking out his side, and the tone of the remark was almost absent. Andre was far, far away.

  “Is everything all right?

  “Huh?” The shocked look he got was not very informative.

  “How are things?” Gilles knew that he had been too obsessed with his own pain lately.

  The world slid by outside the windows, giving a brief glimpse, ever-changing, of the urban life of the city. Everyone was anonymous, and they were all going somewhere else.

  Surely other people in the world had problems of their own, problems not including homicide, but problems that were serious enough. Not everyone had the ability to cope with the things life threw at them. Not that he had either, when he thought about it.

  “We’re having another baby.” The fact, simply stated, covered a multitude of issues.

  “Congratulations!” Henri beamed at them in the rear view mirror. “Yay.”

  It was like this made Henri’s day somehow. Maybe it did.

  “Thank you.” Levain’s tone indicated something more, and Gilles wondered if he was really all that happy with it. “We’re hoping for a boy this time.”

  A sergeant’s pay was nothing like an Inspector’s, and of course there would be costs, there would be stress, and worry, and endless trips to the doctor, and once the baby came, a good night’s sleep would be a thing of the past. Gilles thought he was lucky to have skipped all of that, and at the same time he sometimes felt deprived of the so-called joys of parenthood, which were over-rated but that was the way things were always stated.

  There were many things he would never understand because of lack of experience, and he accepted
that, but what the hell could you say? The affection he felt sometimes for the people around him might be a poor substitute for the love of a father for his children. It wasn’t like he didn’t know what love was. His present state of existence was the result of love being gone, taken away long before it was time. He knew somehow that he would never replace her, and he ached to think on it, so he tried not to any more.

  “It will be all right.” Gilles was tempted to pat Andre on the back of the hand or something, but perhaps that wasn’t appropriate.

  He wondered if Andre saw him as a father-figure. Many younger cops felt that way about their superiors, at least the more trustworthy ones.

  “Yes, of course you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll have us to guide you.” Henri’s shoulders twitched in silent humour and he went back to focusing on the driving.

  Henri had the good Catholic’s attitude, and six children under the age of ten of his own to prove it.

  Levain grinned in spite of himself.

  “You’ll never have to worry about days off, and things like that.” Hopefully it was the right thing to say.

  “He’ll take all the overtime he can get, Inspector.” Perhaps Henri had more wisdom than Gilles gave him credit for.

  Andre nodded thoughtfully beside him.

  ***

  Gilles had been reading a little bit more about Leblanc and what he called the ‘sensual restlessness’ of the age. Perhaps that was what he was feeling right now. The song was haunting, full of regrets, and he wondered. If love was such a beautiful thing, why were there so many sad love songs?

  She knew they were there, of course, but making any assumptions as to how she might feel about it was tricky. She might hate them, but he thought not. She might resent them, and he could understand that. She might see it as heaping additional trials on her slender yet well-formed shoulders, and yet at the same time she might accept that. He wasn’t even sure why they were there, but seeing her in her own natural environment was informative.