“It was just a light thud, or a pop like a motorcycle backfiring a hundred metres away, like on the next block or around the corner.” He had a look of uncertainty on his face. “For all I know, that might have been what I heard.”
He looked around at the others, but none could say for sure.
“Well.” Gilles was contemplative. “It would have helped us with the time of death, which has some importance. If only someone had heard it. But we know a fact now, and that always helps.”
The notion that no one had heard the shot was at least credible.
“Merde. I’ll buy that for a dollar.” Henri put the mass of old books, now seriously holed and distorted by the impact of three slugs, into a clean white pillow case for study and eventual disposal.
It would be unfair to expect Madame Fontaine to clean up the room, so the men gave it a quick once-over with an eye to disturbing nothing.
“Thank you for helping us, Alain.”
Alain had the sheen of tears in his eyes.
“But of course.”
Maintenon, understanding what pain was perhaps better than most, wished there was something he could say. Trust me? I know what I am doing? This must all end, sooner or later?
But that would have been complete and utter nonsense.
***
Gilles had an inner conflict. While he loved his brother and his sister-in-law, and while his nieces and nephews were certainly adorable, it was like he didn’t have anything to talk about. He had never spoken about individual cases to any family member, and the visit was more effort than pleasure. He hadn’t been keeping up with all the family news, and to be truthful, they weren’t that good about writing letters and making phone calls anyway. The fact that one of his nephews was getting married held some interest, but he didn’t know or recall anyone from the bride’s family, and had no real observations to offer. Of course Gilles was happy for young Raymond, whom he remembered from his last visit home as a callow and sarcastic fellow of about fourteen or fifteen years of age, a gangling, emaciated youth with pimply cheeks and a lazy way of sleeping in until noon. Raymond must be in his twenties now.
They knew he was floundering, of course, but cheerfully soldiered on in their stated goal of ‘livening him up a little.’ Their visit had been announced some weeks ago, yet it seemed like it happened by default. They were in town, and so he was privileged to be their host.
It annoyed him when they spoke of her. He wished they would stop. The adults should have understood. The children were practically rolling their eyes whenever her name was mentioned. Gilles manfully resisted the urge to look at his watch or the clock on the mantel.
Madame Lefevre brought the smallest one in from the kitchen, beaming with a kind of surrogate joy, having given the little one her bottle. Gilles hoped his look of relief wasn’t misinterpreted by Isobel, looking sleek and polished on the sofa opposite. He found himself slightly repelled by her dark, bold-coloured lipstick and painted toenails.
Paul was his youngest brother, and he wasn’t quite sure of his birthday anymore. Too many years away and you became a stranger to your own brother. There were so many of them in this family. Stolidly optimistic and with a more rounded face than Gilles, there was still a sense of love there. He analyzed it as he listened.
“Marcel, he’s still got a bit of hair. But look at me.” Paul gave a quizzical grin. “You really should come down home for a visit soon. Oh, I’ sure any one of them would be glad to have you, but you can stay with us. We’ve got plenty of room.”
What in the living hell would he do there? Sit around in parlours talking to his relatives? The word ‘egads,’ popped into his mind, but hopefully, he kept his expression unchanged.
“Oh, thank you.” Gilles smiled dutifully, noting a glance from Madame Lefevre. “Yes?”
“Monsieur, I was wondering how many for dinner?”
“Ah…” Gilles’ eyes rounded and his eyelids fluttered at the question. “Oh.”
He looked blankly at Paul and Isobel.
“Oh, no, that’s all right, Gilles.” Isobel was sharp.
He remembered that much. It must have been eight or ten years since he was last home.
“We’re going to the opera, and we really should be getting along.” Paul looked at the wife. “We’re having dinner out. It’ll be a nice treat for Isobel and the kids.”
“Oh, ah.”
She was a nice person, and Gilles could have found a modicum of affection for her, if the hugs and goodbye kisses with the family last time were anything to go by. He was glad they had found each other, for if any couple seemed happy they did. But Gilles wasn’t party to their no-doubt romantic tale, hadn’t been at their wedding, and had spent a grand total of about six hours in her company in his entire acquaintance with Isobel.
She looked at her husband. Sighing as if it was a real heartbreak, she turned to Gilles and nodded, casting her eyes to the mantel clock.
“Yes, we’re sorry, Gilles, but we really can’t stay.” Turning to Madame Lefevre, she made a universal gesture. “May we use the phone?”
“We’d better phone for a cab. Gilles, you really need to get a car some day.” Paul was a great automotive buff, as though his own little three-cylinder puddle-jumper validated his racing mystique or something.
He took it seriously, to the extent of buying magazines and wearing that ridiculous hat. Considering what that car actually was, their decision to come up by train was probably a wise one.
“I have a card in the kitchen.” Madame Lefevre turned with authority and went to make the phone call.
His brother liked cars. He could wax enthusiastic on the subject, but in that moment Gilles had a real liking for his sister-in-law. She had planned it perfectly, and perhaps she understood him a little better than it was polite to let on. Gilles was tempted to wink at her, but thought better of it. They all stood, with the kids almost bolting for the front hall and their coats and shoes. His brother stood close and they clasped both hands. Paul looked down a little on him, being something like nine centimetres taller, and a little thicker through the jaw.
“Well, brother.” They embraced, and then Isobel stepped in for a peck on both cheeks, which he dutifully returned.
Madame Lefevre returned with a bright look.
“They’re just on the next block. A car will be here shortly.” She looked at Gilles. “Dinner will be in an hour.”
“Thank you, Madame Lefevre.” The lady went back to the kitchen.
Paul slapped him on the shoulder.
“She’s a good old girl. You’re lucky to have her.”
“Hmn, yes.” Gilles coloured slightly, as there was just the fine edge of some other suggestive thought in there.
It was the thin end of the wedge or something.
***
There was a phone in his den, one beside his bed, and one in the end of the kitchen.
Gilles was just sitting down to a braised lamb chop, mashed potatoes and gravy with buttery small peas and a tossed green salad when it rang. For a moment, anger raged internally, and this had better be important.
Considering his social life and his isolation, this could only be bad news or official business.
He was struggling to his feet but she came in from the kitchen and held up a hand.
“Let me get it.” The thing rang yet again.
He subsided and cut a couple of hasty bites of lamb, chewing and gulping one down as she picked up.
“Yes?” She listened. “Yes.”
His guts flipped over when she said it again with a certain inflection.
“Yes.”
She stuck her head in.
“It’s for you.”
Unless it was one of her family, calling on some sort of emergency, it could be for no one else. He took the phone from her outstretched hand as she retreated.
“Gilles! Gilles.”
“Yes? Who is this?” The voice was very familiar, warm and intimate in his ear, but he couldn’t
place the man immediately.
It wasn’t anyone from work, and that confused him.
“Gilles, this is Roger.”
“What? Roger who? Oh. What’s going on?” Gilles settled instantly into professional mode, recognizing his friend’s voice now.
“I’m at the station. Guess who has a little weekend vacation?”
“Hah? Who? What are you talking about?” Gilles’ heart began beating strongly.
The tension in his friend’s voice was palpable, his breath hoarse and ragged as if he was desperately afraid of something.
“Our friend Babineaux. I’m sure it’s him. He’s been in the papers. He spoke at a meeting once, I’m sure it’s the same fellow.”
“Oh, really? Well, they’re under no restrictions.” Not since their own planted story in the paper, not if it was to be believable.
Who else was likely to bolt, now that the case was semi-officially closed in the public eye? He would have thought Alain, or even Madame Fontaine before Babineaux, who was very much a staid and sober individual.
“Yes, yes, I get all that.” Roger was hurried, rushed for time and for air. “Gilles, there was some significant activity on the Exchange today. We don’t have time to talk about it. Your friend is going to Switzerland. I’m at the Gare de Lyon now. He’s bought a ticket and he’s having a sandwich, and I’m hungry as hell too.”
“What? There’s nothing to stop him.” Gilles mind was blank for a moment.
What could he do about it? And what was the significance?
“There’s just time, Gilles. Why don’t you get down here?”
“What?”
“Come on, Gilles, what do you have to lose? Besides, it might be fun.”
Roger was mad. There was a brief slash of anger, deep in his lower abdomen.
“What? Are you out of your mind?” But Gilles’ thoughts were already turning to his coat, his shoes, his keys, and his passport.
Money. He would need a little money, maybe even quite a lot of it.
“Damn you, Roger. Damn you. All right, I’ll be there as quick as I can make it.”
Merde.
“Gilles! Listen. If you miss the train, take the next one. I’ll leave word at the kiosk, but we’re going to Geneva. When you get there, if I’m not waiting at the station, check into the Hotel Flamberge and wait for me, all right?”
Damnation.
“Yes, yes, yes.” Gilles flung the mouthpiece on the hanger and raced to find his passport and open up the safe to see how much money he had.
What the hell. As Roger said, it might even be fun, and as the good Lord knew, he had nothing better to do. The clothes on his back and that stinking white raincoat would have to suffice. It would have to do as a disguise. He could be someone else for a while. It was the weekend, after all.
Merde. It was the only word he could think of, as he wondered frantically where Madame Lefevre might keep that damned taxi company’s card.
Chapter Nineteen
A mad dash across Paris
It was a mad dash across the middle of Paris and then a frustrating wait behind other people at the ticket kiosk, all the while blessing his good luck. It could have been so much worse. With the cab company dispatcher recognizing Maintenon from the address and phone number more than any actual familiarity, the car waiting out front was big, black and fast. The driver was a real pro, and evening traffic was light. The man appeared to have a lot of experience. The ride was smooth but fast. Gilles threw money at him and bolted, leaving the door open behind. He took the steps three at a time.
Standing in the line-up, there were only two people ahead of him at this particular window, and it was the last train of the evening for this destination. People seemed to know what they wanted and had the correct change. This was unusual, in his experience.
“Oh. Just in time sir, I am about the make the announcement.” Like just about everybody in the place, he glanced at his watch in some unconscious habit.
He totaled it up. He had the neat little pieces of pasteboard lined up in front and was stapling things on them. Gilles shoved a hundred-franc note through the slot and waited in aching suspense.
“Keep the change.” His anger was building in direct proportion to the man’s pettifogging attention to detail.
“It’s perfectly all right, sir. They can’t leave until I announce it.” If only he would push the ticket through the slot.
This was worse than the post office. In his limited international travels both professionally and personally, having once been to Belgium, people everywhere reviled the post office. Perhaps it was better to say that they just didn’t appreciate it.
“Ahh…”
“No, honestly, it’s quite all right. Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Surete.” The clerk’s eyes stabbed into his. “I recognized you from the paper.”
He grinned at the look on Gilles’ face.
“Give ‘em hell, eh, Inspector?” He had a fiendishly clever look.
“Oh, this is strictly for pleasure.”
The man counted out his change in jig time, nodding in a knowing fashion and sensing Gilles’s mood. He put the change on top of his ticket and pushed it to him.
“Monsieur Phillipe is in the third carriage.”
“Argh.” Gilles grabbed his small valise up off the floor and bolted for the platform.
Striding along, there was a catch, perhaps even a suppressed giggle apparent in the voice that attempted to calmly and patiently announce in a clearly audible fashion that the train was leaving in one minute. Like all such announcements, the words were indecipherable, rattling and echoing off the tiles and hard surfaces of the walls.
“All aboard!” The conductor was staring straight at him with an expectant look on his face.
Of course, of course. His disguise clearly wasn’t very good, judging by all the attention.
Gilles prayed that the fellow didn’t bellow his name from seventy-five metres away, and was eternally grateful that he didn’t. Monsieur Phillipe. Was that the best Roger could come up with on the spur of the moment?
Without any training, having a financial specialist, a civilian, along for company on the trip would be challenging. That was one thing. But Gilles hoped that it wouldn’t be as irritating as all hell. It was also extremely dangerous working with amateurs.
***
“Did you bring me something to read, Gilles?” Roger’s greeting was glad enough, and they shook hands like old friends. “Why so grumpy?’
“Argh.”
“The game is afoot, mon ami.” Roger looked like a cat that had just swallowed a canary.
“Effing Geneva.” Gilles settled in beside Roger, and in his role as a rough workman-type, replete with baggy trousers and steel-toed shoes, the expletive was in complete character. “Four hundred kilometres on a train.”
He estimated it in his head. They might make an average of sixty or even eighty kilometres an hour, and he mentally added on time, a lot of time, for getting up to speed and braking down again at every stop. He groaned inwardly.
Taking in his companion with cynical eyes, Roger nodded.
“The change will do you good.”
He wished he really believed that, but it looked more like a big pain in the arse.
“Have you ever been on the front page?” Gilles had some concerns about the two of them being recognized instantly by their prey even at a distance.
After all, that was what Roger had done.
“Yes, a few times. But this is new.” Roger stroked his finely-barbered mustache, with a goatee and long sideburns.
“Oh, yes, very nice.” Maintenon had been clean shaven in the past, but in recent years had adopted a neatly trimmed professional man’s mustache.
Tonight he also sported a week or more’s worth of whiskers. This only added to his discomfort. He was discovering that he had a pretty strong self image, and what perfect strangers thought of another perfect stranger meant a lot to him. Perhaps it had something to do
with personal status, whatever that was. It might take some getting used to beyond the physical sensations of greasy lips and an itchy stubble of a sort which begged stroking.
Roger had some other interesting news.
“I hear Alain has transferred all of the stuff from the studio out to the plant. He’s setting up his own professional design bureau.” Roger nodded thoughtfully. “It doesn’t take much brains, I suppose. I wonder how he’ll do with the company.”
“With somebody like that, one wonders how well he will listen to advice.”
“Yes, I suspect you’re right. He’s an actor at heart, and he’s now in charge of his own company. I guess the sister owns half, but of course she’s out of the country. Still, money always talks.” Roger at least had an open mind. “He can act like he knows what he’s doing. This is often surprisingly effective.”
He grinned at Gilles, who was at least listening.
“It’s his responsibility now.” Gilles wondered at the vagaries of Fate, and how Alain might do.
Roger was interested in anything that had anything to do with making money, as well as the people and personalities that inhabited that world. Gilles might learn something from him.
Maintenon was hungry, and wondered just exactly how long it took to get to Geneva. Far too long, he reckoned. Just getting out of the city took what seemed like forever, but metropolitan Paris was one of the most heavily populated areas in the world, and while a relatively compact city for its population, it was still a sprawling place. Taking in satellite towns, villages and suburbs, the train was restricted to lower speed limits. It was only once they got out into the country proper, by which time it was pitch black and he couldn’t see anything anyway, that the sensation of speed, as the wheels clacked faster and faster over the rails, began to pick up.
The pair of them waited until the crush was over and then went to find the restaurant car. Gilles groaned when the train slowed down for the first of many stops. Sleep was the farthest thing from his mind, and there was just no way. What if Babineaux got off somewhere before Geneva? It was a distinct possibility. They had to watch him like a hawk.
The Art of Murder Page 18