Speak Softly My Love

by Louis Shalako

  Everyone wants to be the hero.

  It was only later, when he reckoned the cost. All of those old men, all of those old stories. They were trying to tell him something. All of this sort of hit home one day and he understood their pain. Their suffering and their solitude.

  He saw it in the Boss-man sometimes.

  They never forgot.

  There were other factors going into making him what he was, what he had become.

  He had two brothers and three sisters to look after him. He was quite young when the war broke out. There were parades, men marching by, all with their chins up and shining eyes. They paraded down the street, singing their lusty and cheerful songs. He had cried in his mother’s arms. His father had been absent for a couple of years. And then one day he was dead. The few visits that he could arrange when on leave, had not been enough to have the same kind of relationship as perhaps the older siblings might have had.

  He understood that, and accepted that. It was the way of all things.

  Just the luck of the draw.

  They would have had different experiences of their father, a different set of memories. They might even have resentments, recriminations where he had none. None. He just missed the old fucker sometimes. What little he could remember of him.

  They would also never share this. He was a grown man, and yet his relationship with his mother was special. It served a need in one who had been so immature, so coddled, so sheltered. They really had spoiled him. Sheltered by their love for so long, now it was his turn—and it hurt like hell sometimes.

  It was also very precious. He had learned much, about people. About himself.

  It was something that obviously couldn’t last forever, and yet he knew he would miss it when it was gone. He would cherish it forever.

  He sat beside her and she put her hand on his.

  “Yes, mother. It is I.”

  She smiled, always so gentle and always so proud of him.

  “Have I told you—”

  “Yes, mother, you told me just the other day.”

  …how proud of you I am…

  He was still her little baby. He supposed he always would be, in her now dimming eyes.

  Yes, mother, you told me just the other day.

  And it was enough—enough, already.

  “Have you had your supper yet, Mama?”

  She looked up, again immersed in her project, what looked like another set of booties—pale blue this time around. He didn’t really want to know. It could be Carmen again, or maybe Isobel. One of them was always pregnant, one or the other, at any given time. The story would come out, just as it always did.

  His mother looked lost for half a moment and then she came back to him.

  “I can’t remember what I had, dear.”

  So. She probably hadn’t eaten anything then, and yet she was so deft at dodging the exact, head-on question. It was a family trait, and here it came now—

  “So, how was your day?” She answered a question with another question.

  At one time it might have been infuriating.

  “Fine. Tell you what. I’m a little hungry. Why don’t I make us something, soup and toast or whatever?” It was best to be diplomatic, that’s what Doctor Gauthier always said.

  He never quite knew what might set her off.

  “That would be very nice, dear.” The needles picked up right where they had left off. “I’m glad.”

  Glad about what?

  But he knew enough not to ask.

  “Yes, mother, it’s me.” He heaved a deep and theatrical sigh. “Who were you expecting? It’s him, isn’t it? One of these days I’m going to come home and surprise that other man. I swear by the Holy Virgin, I’m going to shoot him in the bum as he crawls out the window, slinging his trousers ahead of him.”

  She threw her head back and cackled, giving him an admiring look. Tailler tried to think up a new one every day. When he couldn’t, her memory was so bad these days, she never even knew the difference. He’d used that one maybe a week ago. It did the job. That’s all that really mattered sometimes.

  It was enough to know that she was okay. She was not stressing and fussing over little things, miniscule things. If the truth could be safely told, sometimes his mother and her afflictions irritated the hell out of a dutiful, attentive and admittedly loving son.

  It’s just that he was still tied to her apron-strings.

  He still needed her and he told himself that often. As often as he dared. We never really grow up. That was his interpretation. We just pretend that we did.

  We do what is expected of us…for what it’s worth.

  Emile Tailler got up and went to the kitchen, pretty familiar with what was there on the shelf and in the refrigerator. He took the groceries out of the bags and put them away, preparatory to taking one or two items out again and actually making something. They seemed to have an awful lot of carrots in there.

  And in the Beginning, God said, let there be carrots.

  God, how mother had squawked when a bunch of the older ones pitched in and bought the refrigerator for her. Even now, she didn’t really trust the infernal thing as she had called it originally. He stood there, looking inside the big compartment. The motor came on and it began to buzz and rumble down low inside the back part.

  Mama seemed more or less with him today, although it might be a different thing tomorrow.

  It was a sad thing, but there wasn’t much anyone could do about it.

  In the meantime, they would make do.

  As for work, it was best not to think about it.

  It would wait until tomorrow.

  ***

  They were having a case conference.

  It was high time, too.

  The empty desk where Archambault normally sat cast a bit of a pall over the proceedings. It tended to collect things, briefcases, hats, old files waiting to be sent downstairs.

  Andre sat there silently smoking. He had been chewing a lot of pencils lately, and had given up on quitting tobacco, at least for the meantime.

  It was easier to quit chewing pencils.

  LeBref had come and gone again. He was completely self-directed these days, with the blessing of all around him.

  “So. Inspector. What do we do next?”

  “I was hoping that you gentlemen might have some suggestions. It’s your case after all.” Gilles had excused himself from the investigation.

  This was mostly because he didn’t have the time.

  “Well.” Tailler was about to suggest going to Lyon again.

  They had more questions for Lucinde. It was a question of how much time, how many man-hours they might justify for a possible homicide without a body to show for it. If Didier was indeed alive, there was nothing real to connect any of their subjects with the body in the park. What was interesting was that no one else, anywhere in the country, had reported a missing person with anything like the description of their victim. Their option there was to attempt to go back through years of missing-person reports, on some kind of a whim and little else. Time spent was always a ticklish question, at a time when resources were tight. If there was no way a case was ever going to be solved, then why were they digging into it at all? The line of reasoning was simple: don’t waste resources.

  What would be the return on investment? The thing sure looked like a fruitless endeavour.

  It was also the correct attitude, ninety-nine times out of a hundred and who were they to contradict it? Guys like them shouldn’t maybe be contradicting the book and established ways.

  Did the two of them really think they were so good that they were going to get something when no one else could? Emile put the question to the Inspector as Hubert sort of hunkered behind his desk and Levain just listened.

  This would last for about as long as he could stand it.

  The kid had a point though.

  There were other things Levain might be doing.

  “Other than that, we don’t have much to go
on—just rumour and suspicion.” They were speculating like crazy.

  This was no way to run an investigation. Tailler said so and Gilles nodded.

  The phone rang and Gilles casually lifted the receiver. He listened, not revealing any emotion.

  He jotted something on his blotter.

  “Thank you.” He put the receiver down.

  He looked up, first at Tailler and then Hubert.

  “Right. They’ve got a dead body downriver. Sounds like it might be our boy. He’s been in the water for a few days now and he answers the description—my description.”

  “I have to admit—I’m impressed, sir.”

  Tailler and Hubert exchanged quick grins. Gilles snorted, giving his head a quick shake.

  The phone rang again.

  Gilles ignored it.

  “Andre. Do you feel like getting out of here for a while?”

  “Why, sure, Boss.” Detective Levain hastily clambered out of his desk and grabbed his hat.

  “I’ve at least had a proper look.” Maintenon tilted his head.

  He was lucky to be there at that exact moment—first, seeing the body and now the phone call. The phone rang. Again.

  “Ah, sure, Boss.” Levain gave Hubert and Tailler a look

  “And what about us?” Tailler had the bit in his teeth.

  He didn’t want to let go.

  One minute it was their case, and now this.

  Levain pointed at the ringing telephone.

  “I don’t know, but I’ve got a funny feeling that one’s for you.” He gave a happy little smile, crushed his hat firmly down and took one last look to make sure the ashtray was okay and that he hadn’t left the desk on fire.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hubert sighed. He reached over and picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, Hello. This is Inspector Jacques Delorme. Is Inspector Maintenon in today?”

  “Ah, no, I’m sorry. He’s just left, sir. Is there something I can help you with? This is Detective Hubert.”

  “Hmn. Ah. Well. Yes, why not. Look, I’ve got a body downtown here. It’s at the Maison Rive Gauche, a kind of cheesy tourist hotel. Our girl is tall, blonde, and blue-eyed. She’s been stabbed to death. The name is Godeffroy, that’s with two f’s.”

  “Whoa! That’s our case, Inspector. Thank you so much for calling.” He was madly beckoning for Tailler to listen in. “And she’s dead? Shit. So what’s going on, sir?”

  “Monique or Lucinde, sir?” Tailler had grabbed the extension and punched the lit extension button, butting in shamelessly.

  “Ah, according to the identification and the registry, the lady’s name is Zoe.”

  The pair stared at each other from across the room.

  Zoe…???

  “…and there’s a letter in her purse, where someone named Didier is asking to meet her at the hotel. The words ‘second honeymoon’ are underlined…and then it says, love, Didier.”

  There was hoarse breath on the line as the gravelly voice paused.

  Tailler stood.

  “We’ll be right down, Inspector.”

  Tailler hung up. His mouth opened, and then closed. He stood looking at the phone, suddenly grateful that he had a partner to get the address and other necessary details.

  “Uh, huh. Uh-huh.” Hubert’s pen flew as he took it down. “Thank you. We’ll be there shortly. Sir.”

  The door didn’t exactly hit them in the ass on the way out, either.

  ***

  The tray and contents of a continental breakfast lay on the floor just inside the door. They avoided the damp stains from coffee and cream, Tailler noting the faint hint of gritty sugar between shoe and carpet.

  Even dead, the woman in room four-fifteen was another looker by any standard of the imagination. Tailler studied a woman’s body, one which had in death, as well as in life, a firmly rounded shapeliness. The thin silk dress clung to the form and hid nothing important. There was one shoe on the floor and one still on her foot. There was a small run in the stocking on the left calf. He could not stifle the thoughts sometimes. Did it really matter what they looked like?

  There were times when Tailler worried about himself.

  She was face down on the bed. The Inspector and his crew stood back and let Hubert have a look.

  Tailler’s eye wandered the room. The hotel had certainly cleaned up since he’d been here last. At one time it would have been smoke and grease-stained wood paneling. Now it was all smooth plaster and pale, peachy yellow paint. The area had once been high-crime, as recently as five or ten years ago. In spite of the worldwide depression, the area was making a comeback if the Maison Rive Gauche was anything to go by. It suddenly struck him that he’d raided somebody on the third floor. That was just a couple of years ago.

  Tailler wandered over to the window, looking out and checking for balconies, fire escapes and skylights below. The Rive Gauche was an irregular pile of a building. The lady’s name was Zoe Godeffroy according to the hotel records and her own documents. Her papers were conveniently displayed for them beside the purse on top of the white and faux gilt armoire.

  She had been stabbed, according to the inspector. It certainly looked that way. She’d been stabbed in the middle of the room, turned, staggered and fell forwards, face-down on the bed, right arm outstretched as if reaching for the telephone.

  “Have you everything you need?”

  “Yes, the photographers, the fingerprint people, everyone’s been and gone.” Clad in a black raincoat, trousers of the same colour, black leather shoes with slip-on galoshes, the Inspector’s costume was topped off by a grey and brown plaid deerstalker hat. “We’ve picked up any number of strange hairs, strange fibres, bits of toenail, odd-ball stains here and there, and it’s all useless.”

  It was a hotel room no matter how neat and well-kept it might look.

  Too many people going through.

  “Would you be so kind as to forward all reports to Maintenon’s unit?” Tailler was choosing his words. “All the photos, things like that?”

  “Delighted.”

  “Thank you.” Hubert didn’t smell alcohol. “Tailler.”

  Emile nodded. He bent over and had a look at the face.

  She really was a look-alike. That Didier must have a real thing for willowy, blue-eyed blondes. He examined the hair. All natural. No dark roots there.

  A strong smell of expensive perfume, even in death. She’d been dead about twenty-four hours, on his initial impression. Having registered for three days, room service had discovered her.

  Delorme’s men, having taken that hat for granted all these years, were suddenly reminded of it when the great Maintenon’s boys stepped in. Hubert would no doubt be watched closely. He was careful not to show any signs of mockery. This was nothing if not a deference community. The junior officers, flanking their chief on either side, watched him as Hubert gently turned the body over in the opposite direction now. Rigor had set in, and she was a bit stiff, but yielded with a good pull. It was like lifting a plank that had been lying out behind the barn for a while. Grass had grown over it. Her face was puffy, contorted by pressure and wrinkles in the bedclothes.

  Blood had pooled in the lower portions of the body.

  She had been stabbed with a long, thin blade. It was right under the left side of the short ribs. One good push. Straight to the heart. According to the Inspector, the killer had taken the knife with them.

  “Oh, yeah, that’s the way.”

  Not a bone in sight from that angle. She was wearing a cheerful, printed red dress with white flowers, stockings and a garter belt. No panties, no bra. One pair of shoes, one little cap. She had one suitcase and three other outfits hanging in the closet plus slacks and a blouse. Six pairs of underwear, hosiery, a silk scarf. The closet door was wide open. The killer would have been eyeball to eyeball with the victim. Hubert and Tailler took a good look. She had the usual collection of toiletries and cosmetics.

  “Was
the door locked?”

  “No. We feel she let her attacker in.”

  He nodded.

  “They usually do, don’t they.”

  She had died open-mouthed, and he could imagine her laughing, or perhaps being kissed. Yes, that was it. It would be all too easy.

  Love, Didier.

  The poor woman. One short spike of awareness, and then the incomprehensible shock of pain. The eyes would widen and she would question. Those eyes would stare deeply into hers as the awful truth came. She would have clung to him…whoever. The killer was right-handed. He would have had the left arm up around behind her. He would grab a handful of hair and control her. It would have been all too easy. The heart was punctured. Blood pressure fell so rapidly, they were unconscious in seconds. Half a minute after that and they were gone.

  One minute of pain and terror. Next thing you know, you’re on your way to heaven.

  “All right.” Hubert let her fall onto the compliant bedsprings, and stepped back. “Where’s the letter?”

  A detective stepped forwards. He handed over a big buff envelope, with the name, the date, the other details written on it in a big, bold hand. There would be no mistakes with this guy, thought Hubert. He didn’t think he’d ever seen him around, but then he’d only ever heard of Delorme.

  Delorme was as crazy as a shit-house rat, and said to be very, very thorough.

  Hubert carefully pulled it out using a pair of stainless-steel tweezers provided by the young detective. Guys like that should have their initials on there, their initials set in diamonds and emeralds.

  He skimmed it quickly.

  “Hmn. I like that: Love, Didier.”

  Tailler came over and he showed it to him.

  “So what are the hotel people saying?”

  “Half of them are not on shift, so it will take a while to interview all of them. My feeling is that it’s the usual story—plenty of suspicious characters about and no one saw anything in particular. Who knows, we might get something.” Inspector Delorme filled in the details. “She came in by train from Molsheim. She has the ticket stub in her purse. Arrived by cab from the Gare de l’Est. We’re hoping to find the driver and confirm that. Other than that, we know very little. She checked in yesterday afternoon, went out for a little shopping and after that, no one really knows. She didn’t eat at the hotel restaurant or use room service. We can ask around the dress shops. Unfortunately there are a thousand places she might have gone. Fuck, more like ten thousand. It’s too bad, it doesn’t look like she actually bought anything. Unusual for a woman in town for a short time—or any time at all, actually. She left by taxi around eight p.m. last evening. No one remarked upon her return, which probably means she took the room key with her. The elevator boy doesn’t remember bringing her up, but the hotel is fairly busy.”