Tailler agreed to a certain extent, but the heavy red sauces were not his favourite. Since becoming a detective and feeling the pressure, his stomach had rapidly become over-sensitive to hot spices and anything acidic. He had thought driving Chiefs and Commissioners and Deputy Chief-Inspectors around was stressful enough.
Cold beer sounded good to him as well.
“I meant the lady.”
“Ah. Well.” Hubert’s eyes took in the driver, seemingly ignoring them.
Unlike most of his breed, this one was apparently not much of a talker once initial requirements for hard information were met.
“Give up nothing—and wring her for everything she’s worth.”
The driver’s eyes found him in the mirror and Hubert looked away. He didn’t answer to anyone but Maintenon, not in his humble opinion. In certain disciplinary matters Maintenon would be the least of their problems. Other than the bare-bones information they had, perhaps the lady would identify the gentleman in their photos as her husband. It might be an emotional scene, and yet they really couldn’t tell her anything.
If she said, no—that’s not my husband, then the name might just be a coincidence. It was hard to see it any other way at this point in the investigation. At least she wouldn’t be looking at a morgue shot.
“Hmn.” Tailler was beginning to sound like Gilles.
Hubert decided that silence was the best policy and let the conversation drop.
The restaurant was apparently all the blessed way across town. Lyon was an industrial city and the capital of its region. He’d sort of forgotten its size. Any schoolboy could look it up.
He settled into the cushions for a long ride, stomach rumbling and hoping they could get out of there at the crack of dawn. Interesting as it was, variety being the spice of life, his real life was back in Paris.
***
Lucinde was tall, slender, and very blonde and blue-eyed. She was an archetype, as Gilles would have said. She unconsciously lifted a hand and pulled the fine long hair back, sticking it behind her ear to hold it in place.
It was hard to imagine someone like her ever committing a crime, or ever having darkness enter her life. And yet tragedy had struck. The odds were against it, but here it had happened.
Each person, every story was unique and to make an assumption was to be bit on the ass sooner or later. For that reason, Hubert had a prepared list of twenty questions. Tailler would stick an oar in somewhere in his inimitable way.
“Thank you for speaking with us, Madame.”
She nodded sombrely, hands clasped in her lap. Stolidly middle-class by the appearance of her home, a flat in a prosperous section of the city, she appeared to be bracing herself for what came next.
“Now, these questions are strictly routine and there is probably nothing in it. Your husband is Didier Godeffroy, and he is a traveling representative of Gaston e Cie, a wine wholesaler?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“Please call me Hubert, everyone else does. We’re going to do our very best to locate your husband, Madame. In the meantime, every little bit of information you can give is of value. N’est pas?”
She nodded, intent.
All Tailler had said on the phone was that they wanted her to look at some pictures, and that it may or may not be Monsieur Godeffroy.
She was expecting photos from the morgue and she sort of shivered, and yet the two males were so reassuring, so uncertain and so gently polite—the suspense was killing her of course.
“I only wish we had some real news.”
She had some pretty nice knees, thought Tailler.
Emile Tailler, seated beside her on the couch, opened up his battered briefcase, where he had everything stacked up in a kind of order. The envelope of photo-enlargements lay on top. The arrangement had been thoughtful, obscuring any other documents that she might get a glimpse of. You couldn’t be too careful, and more than anything they didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag. It was their case, not hers.
She had no right to any other information. He closed the briefcase and set it aside. If she was completely innocent, she would be accepting things at face value. You couldn’t be too careful sometimes.
He reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the first one. He handed it to her as Hubert studied her reaction.
“Where did you get this?” She looked up, startled. “From his mother?”
Wasn’t Didier supposed to be an orphan…
Didier at about twenty years old. Straw boater cap, white shirt, black vest, ribbon tie and a flower in the buttonhole.
Hubert didn’t answer directly, and sooner or later she was going to catch on. Everything about the lady, the flat, the books on the shelf lining the one short wall on the end and framing the archway into the dining room, spoke of education, intelligence, and refinement.
This was no ordinary housewife.
They tried another picture.
“Ah, why do you ask that?” It was lame, terribly lame. “Is that Monsieur Godeffroy?”
Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks as she faltered before speaking. He handed her another photo.
“God, he looks so young…” It was a university graduation picture, found by the other Madame amongst her husband’s effects.
Hubert wondered why Tailler hadn’t led off with that one, but let the boy go. This was interesting. The orphan must have been lucky, to get a scholarship—or to somehow work his way through school, thought Hubert.
“Is this your husband, Didier Godeffroy, Madame?”
“Oh, God. He’s dead isn’t he?”
This was already going badly but there were only so many approaches, so many places to start.
“We’re not really sure of anything, Madame. Not just yet.”
Hubert spoke up.
“This is all very preliminary, Madame Godeffroy. Your husband impresses me as a very ambitious man.”
All those contradictions.
She hadn’t even questioned as to why a couple of Paris detectives would be involved, perhaps she really was in shock. It took people different ways, some reacted differently. The real control freaks were barking out orders and snapping out instructions to the last; and the weak and the soft merely folded up like a wet cigar in the hip pocket.
Even through the tears, she remembered her manners. She sniffed and gasped, nose already all stuffed up and needing a good blow. Like almost anyone of her class, she had insisted on giving them tea, not exactly unwelcome as it tended to settle the stomach and dull the effects of a couple of tall mugs of cool lager.
It was his one regret, to arrive at this house of sadness, smelling of alcohol. Hubert accepted the error calmly enough. Life was a learning curve, and what was a welcome break from dull routine for the pair of them was right in the midst of somebody else’s misery. You couldn’t help but take it seriously sometimes.
“Forgive us, Madame. These are all very dull, very routine questions, and you have no doubt already heard them before…”
She nodded, sniffling, as Tailler whipped out his own handkerchief. Taking it, she immediately made a mess of it and Tailler gave him an unreadable look.
“It’s just that we need to be really sure.” Tailler pulled out more photos.
Lucinde Godeffroy looked through them.
“Take your time, Madame.”
They had rather easily decided not to tell her about the body Gilles had discovered. Lyon was over four hundred fifty kilometres from Paris. They had their own blaring headlines, and the lady and those big, beautiful blue eyes had hopefully not already been tainted by the news coverage.
This far from Paris, there likely hadn’t been much if anything.
“Aw…” She broke down completely, upon seeing the gentleman as a young man, standing at the side of the other Madame Godeffroy, arm in arm at some seaside village. “Oh, God. Diddy…oh, Diddy.”
“So that is Didier?”
She nodded through the torment.
�
�For the record, Madame, we need to hear you say it clearly.”
“Yes—that is Didier.”
She buried her face in her hands.
“Any idea of who that other young lady is?”
She shook her head, shuddering all over.
“Did he ever talk about his old girlfriends?”
Nice!
That was one way of putting it, thought Hubert.
She shook her head, devastated.
“Do you have any idea of who that other woman, ah, girl might be?”
She shook her head again.
“No…no.” It was wracked out of her in a sob.
Didier must have been in his mid to late twenties when they met. A few previous girlfriends might be a given. It was the sort of thing you probably wouldn’t want to talk about too much.
He was sort of wondering why she didn’t ask about the other person in the picture. How significant that might be was anyone’s guess, and she was definitely a bit of a train-wreck. He wondered if she knew, somehow.
She’d already leapt to the conclusion. How could she not?
Tailler got up, needing breath and movement and almost afraid to ask about the children. Hubert made a point of doing so. Apparently they were in boarding school. That would leave her alone, just her and one or two part-time staff, a cook and a maid, which was sometimes not the best solution. They were only here during daytime.
It would be sheer hell to just sit and wait, thought Tailler.
He wandered over to the mantelpiece, where there were yet more pictures. There were Monique and Didier, him and her and the children, a good looking boy and girl, and other family photos which he presumed would be her parents. He was wondering who was who. Didier was an orphan according to the first wife or whatever she was.
“Are these your parents?”
“Yes. Didier had no one.”
“Ah.”
For an orphan, a ward of the state, to go anywhere in life or to make anything at all of themselves, was a real achievement. They mostly grew up in the poor-house. His own middle-class upbringing did nothing to dispel those notions. A few years in police work was an awful dose of reality. Tailler really had been sheltered, accepting that as the norm and sometimes wondering why anyone would be so errant as to choose not to live a normal life.
That was one way of putting it.
He had learned not to judge too harshly.
After a quick pause for thought, Hubert went on with the questions.
“And you two have been married about eight years, is that correct?”
Her response was muffled and indistinct, and Tailler turned away from the pictures to listen.
“Okay. How and where did you happen to meet?”
Chapter Six
By the time they got out of there, it was late afternoon.
“Whew. So that’s really our boy.”
Hubert nodded.
“Sure looks that way.” They still had to go back to the hotel.
They hadn’t had any dinner, and there was a quick stop at the Lyon police station. Without a doubt no one, absolutely no one, would have heard of them, and their benefactor, the redoubtable Sergeant Roche, would have already gone off duty. It would all take too long, eating into their valuable time off.
“So.” Tailler had a way of cutting to the chase scene. “What now?”
“Dinner, a drink and a show—assuming there is such a thing in this town.”
Lyon wasn’t that bad, although being in a strange place had its disadvantages. It might also have some advantages. They were young and life was good. The thing to do was to accept it, let go, and let the current take them.
Hubert wanted to call home, as the lady friend would be expecting to hear from him. Tailler had endured the fellow lying flat on his back, on Tailler’s bed no less, and engaging in one of the mushiest, and most endearing conversations he’d ever shamelessly eavesdropped on.
And now this.
Every coin had two sides, in his observation.
As for Tailler, other than his frail and elderly mother, there really wasn’t much going on in his life at all. Before leaving, he’d made a quick call and his sister had promised to check on mother around bedtime. In his mother’s case, that meant seven o’clock in the evening these days.
It really was good to get away.
“All right. One thing at a time. I’m hungry. And we really ought to go see Roche. It can’t take more than five minutes. It’s the least we could do for the guy.”
Hubert grinned.
“Yes, it is.”
Tailler was nothing if not a growing boy and that impressive frame must be fed.
They finally got into their waiting taxi, the meter still ticking inexorably over.
“Driver.”
***
“Oh, my God.” Emile Tailler couldn’t tear his eyes away.
“What?”
Etienne, otherwise known as Detective Hubert, belched softly and eyed up the tall but rapidly diminishing pitcher of the house draft.
“Holy.”
Holy was right, thought Hubert. It was like the guy had never seen a naked girl before, and for all he knew that might be true. His head was showing signs of stiffness, perhaps tightness in behind the eyes was a better description. There was a very good chance that Hubert would have a headache if not an outright hangover in the morning.
He was prepared to take that risk.
Grinning at his thoughts, he eyed his friend. Surely he could call him that. Tailler was working out pretty well and there was every indication that he would be there in another six months or so.
Each having drawn a couple of hundred francs in expense money, it was like suddenly they were flush with cash, and in between paydays and everything.
It was about time the guy loosened up. It was a co-conspiracy after all.
The club was small, intimate, and minimalist. The floors were bare boards painted dark brown, and the narrow black cracks hinted at damp cellars and dirt floors down below. The interior walls were a warm sort of ruddy multi-toned brick. They had been sandblasted back into a kind of glowing cleanliness which nevertheless revealed the history of the building. There were skylights three floors up. It was a tall, vast and narrow space, really quite beautiful, and one had to wonder what the neighbouring buildings looked like inside. Probably nothing like this.
“I have to admit, I’m impressed.”
Hubert burst out laughing.
“That’s what I like about you.”
Mona, a lithe and acrobatic young dancer with strong Gypsy features, had finally gotten down on all fours. She went into her act on a tiger skin that must have been three metres long. Hubert assumed it was real. He’d read one or two stories where tigers figured prominently.
Hubert looked away and sipped at his brew. He was hoping that Tailler could take a hint, but the boy was apparently away from home for the very first time, and overnight in a strange city at that. He didn’t seem all that good at holding his liquor. Tailler probably thought he’d had enough, but if so he was wrong.
The girl looked impishly at them, first over one shoulder and then the other. She was down on hands and knees and presenting a pretty fine cul in their general direction. The show would take in all available points of the compass. Tables surrounded the small stage on three sides. There was what would be called Perv’s Row, bench seating right up against the stage. Based on past experience, Hubert must assume that the boys down there could literally smell her in all her glory. Tailler, having come in the door ahead of him, had grabbed the first table he’d seen in a kind of defense mechanism.
They were at a table more or less in the darkest corner.
Emile engaged him with a look and a nod, eyes slightly glazed as if he couldn’t quite believe his luck. There was something of the look of a three or four year-old child on Christmas morning—just when they come to that age when they can truly comprehend. They become aware of the larger world around them. They can final
ly detect something other than their own stomach, their own bowels, their own little world of toys and play and crying all the time. They could almost hold their own shit in at that point.
There was just the hint of white around Tailler’s eyes.
He’s walked into a candy store and the owner has died of a heart attack—you’re nine years old and you can see all the infinite possibilities inherent in the situation.
“An invoice is another name for the conscience.”
“What?”
Tailler’s head bobbed and a serious look crossed that pleasantly-ugly mug.
“What about…?” Tailler was wondering what she might think of all this…
“Emmanuelle?” Hubert shrugged.
Tailler looked away. The girl was staring deeply into his eyes as she rolled around, going from side to side on her back, lifting her legs wide open in a V and sliding her hands up and down her inner thighs.
Emile licked his lips, totally unconscious of the picture presented.
“Oh, boy.” Hubert heaved a sigh. “You know how it is. What she doesn’t know can’t hurt me.”
Tailler chuckled dutifully. On balance, Hubert could have done without the reminder, but in his opinion no real harm would come of it. As for the drinking, it would be interesting to see how that progressed. He and Emmanuelle were engaged, and he was saving up for a really good ring.
Until then, there were mutual intentions and promises made. That didn’t necessarily mean he was enslaved to the girl. He certainly hadn’t gone blind or anything like that.
For crying out loud.
He raised his glass in salute.
“Normally, I drink alone.”
“Huh?”
“It’s just that I can’t stand alcoholics.”
Tailler laughed. Hubert thought that one was pretty good too. It was the first time he’d ever thought of it.
That’s not to say Hubert wouldn’t have done it in a heartbeat, because he would have. It wasn’t just their present entertainment, either. It wasn’t just dancers, or Emmanuelle herself. There were plenty of women in the world. That much was true. But they were safely out of town, no one had the slightest clue of where they were or what they were up to.
Speak Softly My Love Page 4