And how he and one or two others matched descriptions given by witnesses.
Most of it was bullshit, but the kid didn’t know that.
Henri told him the facts, which were that they had become inspired, and came back later and crawled in through the broken window and opened up a coffin. One that had the lid down, but it wasn’t nailed on or anything. How they had gotten in as a prank, but then someone made a suggestion, and in their drunken irresponsibility had stolen the body and walked off with it. How they had tossed it in the river from off of a bridge, most likely the nearest one, suitably embellished in the form of a little money, and an empty wallet. They didn’t really think about it too much, or they would have realized that corpses were embalmed.
He had threatened the lad with fifteen years on Devil’s Island, and that was the thin end of the wedge that found the chink in the boy’s armour. He had obviously heard some stories about the place. The word, ‘homosexuals,’ clearly scared the shit out of the young would-be warrior. He had a suitably graphic imagination. When Henri shoved a piece of paper across the table, saying it was both an admission of guilt and a promise of restitution, the boy broke down and cried.
“What I’m saying, is that all you have to do is accept responsibility, and admit that it was wrong. I have better things to do, believe me. Take up a collection among your friends.” Henri took a long hard look at the young fellow, with silence hard on the air. “Would you like to speak to your father?”
The boy’s horrified look said it all. His father sat in the Chamber of Deputies.
“I’ll sign.” His voice was low and broken.
“Can you and your friends stay out of trouble for the next two years?”
The fellow’s face dropped after some consideration.
“How about six months, then?” Henri had the hint of a laugh in his voice, but he resisted the urge to glance at the window. “I guess that’s all we can hope for, eh? After that, all bets are off!”
The boy raised his head and looked at the paper.
“Go ahead, boy. Just get it over with and make sure you pay the people, okay? I will be checking up on you. My boss will be checking up on me, just so you know.”
“Yes, sir.” The young man signed, and then Henri pointed at the door.
“Get out.”
The young man took him at his word and wasted not a moment’s time in vacating his chair and the interview room, face flushed with what was hopefully some sense of shame. Whether it was from the rough talk by Henri, or simply the fact that they had been caught and somehow would have to pay for hundreds of man-hours of police work, an exhumation, and the damage to the window, was of no concern to Gilles.
Henri had scared the crap out of him, and that was the main thing. As for whether or not it would do any good, only time would tell.
Henri came out as Gilles opened his door.
“Good work, Henri.” He slapped him on the arm on the way by and headed back to his office to think about things and hopefully tidy up some loose ends.
“Thank you, Inspector.” The look on his face was priceless.
Henri was shaping up, and Gilles didn’t begrudge the odd compliment to a man who was working hard and learning on the job.
He had an appointment with Chiappe in fifteen minutes or so.
***
With a face like that, the boss had better stay out of trouble. Pushing that thought aside, Gilles made his report. Chiappe had a lean and hungry look, as always.
Jean Chiappe’s big office befitted his status, but was hardly palatial. It was still a room for work, albeit a different kind of work, for his role included staff promotions, political considerations, and in keeping responsible oversight over the daily activities of the men and women under his command.
He had deep, comfortable chairs, for which Gilles was grateful. A cold drink, with genuine ice-cubes, stood at his elbow on a small round gilt and marble stand. Smoke curled up from his cheroot as he spoke, permeating the air with its acrid smell.
The boss and his assistant, Gerard, listened intently. Word had it that Gerard was going back into regular duties. No one could say if this was a reward or punishment. It was just the talk around the building.
“Babineaux was angry when this Charles Leroux, a purely nominal figure, was appointed a seat on the board of directors, a seat he felt he should have had?”
“Mostly speculation on our part.” The admission came easily enough.
Leroux was an old family friend of the Duval clan, and had a seat on a number of other company boards. Gerard scribbled notes as Maintenon talked. People said that Chiappe couldn’t type worth a damn. Perhaps it was true, but why he should have to do his own typing anyway was a mystery to Gilles.
“Yes. That’s our theory so far, but it makes some sense.” Gilles consulted his notes. “And this was after only two or three years of service with the firm. He thought he was the indispensable man. Look at the meticulous paper trail that he has left for us. When he signed his agreement of employment, he elected to take stock instead of a cash bonus. He has an insufferable ego, which he carefully suppresses in public. He is aware of his weaknesses.”
“And this shell company in Geneva?” Chiappe nodded in comprehension. “Not the first time, eh, Gilles?”
“He might have done this before.” Or something like it, perhaps not including murder on those occasions. “Very quietly, he had already accumulated just under ten percent of Duval Industries, and the ease of doing so must have given him cause to think. Once he had enough shares, he might have been eligible for a seat on the board. More importantly, he saw a chance to own a significant part of the firm and then he would literally own a piece of Theodore Duval. This must have been very attractive to one such as Babineaux, who is a bit of a megalomaniac on certain matters, including what he thought was his due.”
Babineaux had a sense of entitlement.
“I see. You have arrested Babineaux, but you found no physical evidence in his office or home?” Chiappe winced at that one. “And of course the Swiss authorities are notoriously uncooperative when it comes to crimes of international finance, especially when one of their most famous banks is involved.”
“Yes. They’re also a haven for just such shell companies as Babineaux was using. They pay nominal taxes, and there are fees involved, often granted to concessionaires for the re-selling of permits and licenses.”
“Of course.” Jean-Baptiste gave a jerk of the head.
“Monsieur Babineaux has one key on his chain which he cannot account for.”
Chiappe eyed him curiously.
“What of it?”
“He says he can’t recall, but I find it interesting that he would answer that question, while pointedly refusing to answer our questions about his little trip to Switzerland. The Societe Anonyme des Marchands isn’t returning our calls, incidentally.”
“And it doesn’t fit anything at the Duval household?”
“No.”
“It doesn’t fit Alexis’ apartment, or a garden shed somewhere?” Chiappe was merely trying to be helpful, but Gilles grinned at the thought processes. “Roger has been very quiet.”
Roger Desjarlais took a deep breath.
“Wasn’t this whole thing about a key to begin with? And yet it’s never been anything but irrelevant.” The assistant Gerard, pen poised, looked from one to the other.
“It has also been useful, if only in getting us a warrant.” Chiappe looked at Gilles. “Right?”
“No. It is relevant. I would imagine that Babineaux was at one of Duval’s parties, perhaps a new product launch, or merely an evening with friends. He went rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for a cork-screw or something, and that key gave him ideas. Trust me, this was premeditated murder—not a moment of passion. He had it all plotted out before he ever set foot in the place.”
“And. Alain took the billiards table.” Chiappe tilted his head from side to side in contemplation.
It was
a lucky break. The Duvals loved billiards. Alain couldn’t decide whether to sell the house or not, but he grabbed that table.
“Most cases couldn’t be solved without the assistance of the public, Gilles.”
When Alain sank a ball in a corner pocket, but it only rolled part way down the return tube, the solo game he was playing was rudely interrupted. Alain, frustrated at first, but then becoming curious, called a service company. Their technician quickly found the source of the problem. Someone had shoved a rolled-up children’s school scribbler down into it, filled with columns of numbers in Theo Duval’s loose and idiosyncratic handwriting.
The numbers bore a strong correlation to Babineaux’s bonuses, and his subsequent purchases of stock, as well as the stock purchases of the shell company. The inference was that Theo had confronted Babineaux, probably by telephone, with evidence of his perfidy, although it wasn’t on the face of it illegal. What it was, was sneaky. Babineaux knew his game was up and went to the train station in Lyons immediately.
“A man like Theo Duval wouldn’t have liked that at all, and it was a simple matter of extension to infer some sort of confrontation. When the time came, Duval was working in the studio. Babineaux got the gun from the unlocked drawer. It really says something about him, but I think he stuck it in his mouth and made him beg…”
It was clear enough even though Babineaux was denying everything and had engaged a lawyer.
“So you checked at the train station?”
“Yes. That will be the final nail in his coffin. Babineaux actually arrived the night before. He tore up the ticket stub, or got rid of it in some other way. This was a man who was conscientious about saving receipts and the like for his expense account, and as a matter of fact it looks like the only one unaccounted for. It’s out of character for Babineaux. This is hardly conclusive. But we have a positive identification from several witnesses. It was a slow night insofar as large numbers of passengers are concerned, and he arrived very late. He is always extremely well dressed. There is little doubt that it was him. We’re looking for a certain cab driver. It’s prime turf there. Dozens of cabs come and go at peak times. There are big firms, small firms, and then the privateers, but they all know each other, and sooner or later we’ll find the one who took him to Duval’s.”
They were also conducting inquiries in Lyons.
“Gilles, how did Babineaux get into the house unobserved by anyone else?” Chiappe’s eyes glinted at him over the rim of his glass.
Gilles sighed, shoulders slumping slightly.
“I’m thinking he used the key under the mat by the back door in the alley?”
“What? Whoa! No one mentioned that before.” Chiappe was shocked.
“No.” Gilles had a look of anger and regret. “It was the one obvious question we forgot to ask. How in the hell did the killer get in? But of course I kept thinking of someone actually in the building already. I’m very sorry about that, and I take full responsibility. Monsieur Babineaux is a clear thinker. As I said, the key in the kitchen drawer gave him some ideas. In all likelihood, wearing gloves the whole time, he simply dropped it back in on the way out. He was cool enough, I suppose.”
“What about the Moroccans?” Chiappe had a point, but Gilles was satisfied with his case.
He shrugged in a non-committal fashion.
“We’ll offer him life imprisonment, and ask him the question. But first, he can have a few weeks in a cell to think about it. It might actually be completely unrelated. We’re asking around. If someone dirty gets picked up on another matter, the information will be a bargaining chip for them. They’ll sacrifice Babineaux, or whoever, for their own hide. It’s a good bet.”
“All right, Gilles. And thank you for your help, Roger. We couldn’t have done this without your inspiration.”
Roger gave a nod of acknowledgement.
“Well, ah, Gilles does deserve a lot of credit. If he hadn’t gone along with it, I probably would have just turned around and gone home.”
“That’s why we keep him around.” Chiappe exchanged a look with Gerard, who glanced quickly at his watch.
Then they stood and engaged in a brief round of congratulations, the chief and his men. It was all over bar the shouting.
Chapter Twenty-One
Another long day faded into night
Another long day was fading into night. Gilles closed up his office door with a sigh and a sense of real accomplishment. For some reason, the usual dread of going home was absent. He exited the building, almost relieved that he saw no one he knew, and yet surely word had gone around the building about the arrest of Eduard Babineaux and the successful resolution of another case. It was not like he needed their acclaim.
It was all up to the courts now, and a jury of Eduard’s peers.
The life of the city went on, and the worst position a man could find himself in was to not have a friend in the world. People were people, essentially, and they would do what they would do, some for the better, and some for the worst. They all sought their own natural level, and every single one of them had earned their fate. He wondered if that thought was what made him different. The truth was, that he did have one or two friends. The thought brought a gush to his midriff. He was luckier than most, and it was best to try and keep it in mind.
While few on the pavement dared to make eye contact, intent upon their own business or some internal misery, he peered into the faces, acknowledging that in some ways he loved them all.
It was better than hating everyone, and in some indescribable fashion he realized that he loved himself as well. It was a big improvement, and he wondered just what had happened to cause this change in attitude. But he was no longer exclusively wrapped up in himself. He was thinking about other people again, and you couldn’t argue that it wasn’t his job, for surely it was.
He thought of Henri, who looked up to him almost as a god, and yet didn’t let it faze him. He thought of Andre, and LeBref, and Le Clerc, and above all, Chiappe. He thought of Alexis and Yvonne, and Madame Fontaine, and Monsieur Charpentier. He thought of a few others, closer to home.
The faces in the crowd of pedestrians told a thousand stories and implied a thousand mysteries, and that was good, for when you stopped caring life was over and you might as well die. He walked for the sake of walking, not caring about anything for a while.
Maintenon stuck his hand in his pocket, and felt some coins, and his wallet bulged as it did every pay period, at least until he got home and began paying the bills. On the other hand, he couldn’t remember the last time he was actually short of cash. Maybe he could loosen up a little, but the peasant values he had been raised with died hard.
There was a cab sitting idle by the curb. Gilles went over and tapped on the window. The driver leaned over and rolled the window down.
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you know where the Ham Bone is?”
The driver smiled.
“Yes, sir, I do. Would you like to go there?”
“Yes. Would you like a sandwich? And a beer, or maybe a good cup of coffee?” This spontaneous impulse didn’t appear to surprise the fellow at all.
He grinned, and gave a quick nod. That’s what they said about cops and cabbies—that they had seen it all, and who knows, maybe it was true.
“Sure. Why not?” The man was about thirty-five, and he seemed genuinely cheerful, even glowing with a ruddy good humour and a sense of his own fortune.
It could have been worse.
His hand came up and he turned on the meter with what appeared to be a kind of reluctance.
Maintenon settled in and closed the door with a sigh of gratitude, and with a quick glance in the mirror and also over his shoulder, the driver eased the car out into the busy evening traffic. For the driver, who gave him an appreciative glance in the mirror, perhaps liking what he saw or at least feeling not too threatened by it, it was just another day and another dollar, and another day closer to death, and in the meantime, he had a livin
g to make and there was no point in not enjoying it as best he could.
Perhaps this was the secret of life after all. You did the best that you could with what you had, and when it was all done and over with, you let it go.
The End
Louis Shalako began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time.
http://shalakopublishing.weebly.com
The Art of Murder Page 20