“Very good, Madame. This may be of very great help to us. May we return to the salon? I’m sure we’ll all be much more comfortable in there.”
They got her seated on the couch again.
Tailler stood over by the window, and Hubert, with that wonderful bedside manner of his, sat again on an angle, his right knee touching her left knee. He took her hands in his. Tailler came back and picked up his envelope of pictures.
“Okay, Lucinde. Please prepare yourself for a shock, and yet we must not leap to any hasty conclusions. I want you to be totally objective here. This is no time for raw emotion. Comprene?”
She nodded, almost too frightened to speak by this point. Whatever was coming, she knew it had to be bad news.
Tailler made his decision. Straight from the shoulder with this one.
He placed the first photo on the coffee table in front of her. Hubert picked it up, helpfully holding it so the light fell on it properly. Her hands were shaking as she took it from him.
It was one of the post-mortem pictures, one where the subject’s eyes had been thoughtfully opened by a cooperative Doctor Auger for this particular shot. Such photos had been known to be successful in helping to identify victims and missing persons before.
Her mouth opened. She stared, all colour gone from her face.
“Is this your husband Didier, Madame Godeffroy?”
A single tear issued from the one duct that he could see. Presumably there were more on the other side to balance that, but the lady didn’t answer. They needed to hear her say it.
“Madame. I wonder if I could ask a very great favour of you. I know this is really tough—” Detective Hubert chewed away and finished the thought. “We have a body and we need to have you come and identify it. The really big problem is that it’s in Paris—just a little town on the outskirts, actually…kind of a suburb.”
Tailler showed her another picture, and then another. She fixated on first one, and then the other.
It was the same old problem, but this was the wife—or one of the wives. In death, with water soaking into the body, and collisions with rocks, pilings and underwater obstructions, well. It hadn’t done the body any good. The face had become an amorphous blob of flesh, discoloured but not badly cut and bruised.
“It’s okay, Madame.” Hubert tried to take the pictures back but she resisted.
He could wait a minute longer, as she took another look.
“It certainly looks like Didier, and yet not Didier—he was an orphan, you know. But this could be a twin, perhaps older, a little heavier. You know, an older, fatter version of Didier.”
Was it merely denial? An unwillingness to accept.
She looked at them in a kind of lucid wonder.
“Oh, of course—you’ve never met him.”
“Madame, I know this is short notice and this may be a tragic time for you. If only we knew for sure. What I am suggesting is that you accompany us, this afternoon. Right now, in fact—” This with a quick glance at his watch. “…by train, to Paris, and we’ll try and decide if this is your husband. Didier. And I know that it is…really, a terrible thing to ask.”
But.
Tailler cleared his throat.
Her mouth hung open.
“The thing is, Madame, that if we were to get a move on, we could be there by early evening. We could view the body. I know, if it’s not Didier, it really is a terrible inconvenience. Outrageous, really. But if it is him—and I certainly hope it is not for your sake, Madame, but if it is him, then really, wouldn’t you want to know?”
She stared at her feet for a moment. Lucinde lifted her face.
“For sure, I mean.”
“Of course you’re right, but must we leave right now?”
He nodded soberly.
“I thank you so much. It really is better if next of kin makes any identification. Anyways, would you have a marriage certificate, anything like that? You’re listed as Madame Lucinde Godeffroy on the passport, right, that’s good, but if you had anything else that would be wonderful. N’est pas?”
Her eyes went to the clock on the wall. Her face was like stone as she rose and headed for the desk again.
“I don’t know—I think it might be here somewhere.”
Chapter Eighteen
In the end, all she could find on short notice was a wedding picture, a clipping from the Lyon daily newspaper. Her hands were shaking and her lips quivered when she gave it to them. There was the date and their names written in a tiny feminine hand on the right-hand margin. She had no idea of what happened to their papers. They might have been lost in a move or even during spring cleaning. She certainly must have had a birth certificate when applying for the passport. The lady was a bit rattled. Neither she nor Didier had liked keeping a lot of dusty, mouldy old boxes around.
“That’s us.”
“Thank you, Madame.” Tailler put the clipping into his precious envelope, jammed his hat back on and they headed for the coat closet. “And don’t worry about expenses and accommodation. There’s plenty of provision in the budget for what we call, uh…special services.”
Lucinde took a deep breath and steeled herself. Her hands were together, clinging very tightly to her purse, and she stood very straight as she fought for self-control.
“Is there anyone you might want to call, Madame…Lucinde?”
“Oh, shit. I’d better leave a note for Celeste. The maid. She might worry.”
“Okay, let’s do that quickly now.”
Rather than allow her back into the flat again, Tailler pulled out his notebook and flipped it open to a clean page.
“Okay. Here we go, let’s keep this nice and simple. Only that you’re going away to Paris for the evening and that you’ll be back tomorrow afternoon at the latest. You’ll call them from your hotel. Something like that.”
She scribbled it out, putting the pad flat on the wall at face height and writing it out pretty much as he said.
“We’ll just leave that on the coffee table.” Hubert scurried to the salon with the torn-off sheet as Tailler helped the lady on with her coat. “Say, when does Celeste come in, anyways?”
Lucinde told them Thursdays and Fridays and the pair nodded.
Tailler’s mouth was terribly dry and this was going to be as awkward as all hell. It had to be borne for all of their sakes.
“I must say. You’re really being a good sport about all of this.”
There was the most barren ghost of a grin from a somber and very preoccupied Lucinde Godeffroy as he turned the knob to let them out.
***
It was probably the longest train ride of their lives.
The two of them sweated it out, immersed in the heavenly aroma of a healthy young female, immaculately prepared, painted, powdered and polished. What she thought of all this could only be imagined.
It really was kind of ignorant, Tailler had to concede.
After dealing with her children, who were away in school in Switzerland, and Tailler’s mother, there wasn’t much left to talk about. She seemed genuinely interested that Hubert was engaged, and smiled sadly as she looked out the window after that little tidbit. Silence fell over the three.
It was a good thing the detectives had an agreed-upon plan. Other than that, they would consult in the men’s room when circumstances arose.
The lady sat in the middle. There was no way they were going to talk about anything important with her there anyways. It was times like this when they realized what strangers, people really were. To speak of the weather was too boring and too predictable. To speak of politics was to argue, Tailler was convinced, although he doubted if the lady’s politics or his partner’s, were all that much different than his.
It was hardly an occasion for cheer.
Current events, celebrity gossip and the latest films, who was playing at the theatre or what was the latest best-selling book, would quickly tend to pall over something like five hours on the train. There was no way in hell th
ey could just sleep.
She was very quiet and not asking a lot of questions, which was a relief.
The lady had more important things on her mind. In spite of all, Tailler still wanted the lady to like him—there was this urge not to offend, to appear…well, as something in her eyes. Anything, rather than the incompetent and bumptious fool he knew himself to be. Maybe, someday, the confidence would come more naturally. At times the quiet was overwhelming. It was a kind of chivalry, perhaps, tempered with strong physical attraction.
The landscape under low cumulus held no comfort for her. For Tailler it was losing interest, and Hubert was quite frankly close to dozing off. Tailler had the impression that Hubert and Emmanuelle were keeping some fairly late evening hours.
Nice work if you can get it—more power to them, in his opinion. Emmanuelle was surprisingly plump in Tailler’s opinion. He’d only seen a picture. They’d never actually met. Emmanuelle was filtered, seen only through Hubert’s little anecdotes.
Finally the train drew into the station. All three were famished. They agreed to a quick snack in the station itself. Sandwiches and coffee, which didn’t take very long at all. It did some good, but not much.
After viewing the body, no matter what happened, it seemed unlikely that Lucinde would have much of an appetite. To provide her with a hotel room was one thing. Yes, she would have to eat, and she should eat. The notion that Lucinde would find any great comfort or pleasure in the company of two bearers of bad news seemed terribly unlikely.
What were they supposed to do, suggest dinner with the lady? The option was to just leave her alone, although it was awkward. Climbing into the cab, Hubert gave directions and they headed off in the direction of the Maison Santé.
“Not much longer now.” Tailler, with her in the back seat, resisted the urge to pat her on the back of the hand.
He’d already done it about fifteen times and was aware of how it looked. Hubert had been solicitous, which was fine. Hubert managed to keep his hands to himself, when all poor old Emile Tailler wanted to do was to take the lady into his arms and comfort her.
What might happen after that didn’t really bear thinking about. It was pure, childish fantasy. What really bothered Emile was the thought of someone like her, winding up with a real skunker like Didier.
She might not even be a widow yet—but they would know within a half an hour or so.
After that, one way or the other, things could get awkward. At least then they would know.
***
It was the same process as before. Tailler introduced her to Doctor Auger. After some small preliminary remarks, which were meant to be reassuring, he opened the hatch and pulled out the sliding slab.
Hubert had found a seat in the corner by the door, wanting to study the lady’s reaction.
“All right. Madame, are you ready?”
She stood there at the side of the table and Doctor Auger lifted the cloth covering and exposed the face.
There was no hesitation.
“Oh, Didier! Oh, my God, poor, poor Didier.”
Bawling her eyes out, Lucinde fell forwards onto the body, as Tailler’s head whipped around to meet Hubert’s eyes with a stunned look. Doctor Auger was patting her on the shoulder and the back, making soothing noises as the pair of detectives stared into each other’s eyes.
Hubert stood, approaching Lucinde. There was only one way to play it in his opinion, and that was strictly by the book.
Don’t give up anything.
“Please, Madame.” Hubert took her by the elbow, four of them crowded around the upper end of the slab. “We understand that this is a terrible tragedy.”
“But we need to talk.” Tailler had little choice but to wrap a long arm around the distraught, downright hysterical woman as she kicked and cursed in terms that were not very lady-like.
They finally wrestled her, as gently as possible, over to the chairs along the far wall.
She had all kinds of things to say, mostly to God. Her eyes were fierce and for a moment it looked as if she might strike whoever was closest.
“Please, please, Lucinde. Try to get control of yourself. We know this is very hard for you.” Grief was so contagious an emotion, he was wracked with a sob of his own. “But we have a job to do too, right, Lucinde?”
“Oh, God, Didier—my love. My one and only, the love of my life. Oh, God, how can you be so cruel?”
She fell forwards, bending in half and howling in her anguish, covering her eyes. She bawled into her soft grey gloves, which she hadn’t taken off since leaving the house in Lyon six or seven hours previously. The gloves seemed a way of insulating herself, keeping her dignity in the worst of times. It really wasn’t that cold.
“Okay, okay.” Tailler sat beside her as Hubert pulled out his notebook, still standing by the slab with Doctor Auger. “Just for the record. Lucinde Godeffroy, is this the body of your husband, Monsieur Didier Godeffroy?”
She nodded, the makeup ruined totally. She hadn’t been looking all that good when they came in. A shudder wracked what was a fairly long frame. She had refreshed herself once on the train and then once again at the station. All that work was now undone. She had been revealed as a distraught woman with nowhere to turn, no one to cling to, not the way she once had with Didier.
At that moment, whatever one might think of Didier, it was possible to see that Lucinde had very much been a woman in love. The handkerchief was sodden and her nose was running. Doctor Auger pulled paper tissues from a dispenser and handed them over to Hubert, who brought them to Lucinde. With guests present, Dr. Auger could only be attentive and keep out of the way. It was all in a day’s work.
Emile was studying his notebook, lucky to have brought the correct one. A thought struck him.
“There are, unfortunately, not much in the way of personal effects.” There was another question he must ask. “What colour of suit was he wearing when he left the house?”
Her lips quivered as she tried to answer.
“His black suit is missing, but he had several. He had a dozen suits, mostly in dark colours. It might be at the cleaners.”
The tears still flowed.
“Does he have a brown suit?”
She shuddered.
“Yes.”
“Ah—do you know if it’s still there—” Merde, but he couldn’t help but ask.
That one was a giveaway—
She shook her head, eyes red and raw.
Tailler was wondering at his own reaction. Surely she deserved better than this, although he wasn’t so sure about Didier.
He gave Hubert a look, receiving a shrug and a non-committal look in return.
“All right, Madame. We’d better get you to a hotel.”
“Can’t I…can’t I just sit with him for a moment?”
Auger gave a quick and negative shake of his head. It was against regulations, of course.
“No, I’m afraid not, Madame.” Tailler found the formality helped, otherwise he had no idea of what to say.
She was such a nice lady, and no one deserved this—a bigamist for a husband, and yet she had obviously loved him so very much. As for Monique and her failure to identify the body, perhaps that could be put down to denial, perhaps, perhaps…perhaps. But it was definitely odd, he had to admit that.
“When—when…”
“Take your time, Madame.”
“Oh, God.” More tears fell. “This is so hard—when will I be able to call the funeral—”
Dr. Auger cleared his throat.
“The remains will be released in due time, Madame.”
The detectives wrestled with that problem silently, exchanging another quick look, but neither one contradicted him.
“Yes. It might be a while, Madame. Ah. Incidentally. I know this is very hard, Madame Godeffroy. But, uh. Your husband was stabbed to death, Madame. I guess you have the right to know that.”
It was the final blow.
“Oh…”
She sagge
d heavily against first one, then the other. They quickly got her into a chair.
They waited for her to recover from a swoon of sorts.
Hubert took one elbow and Tailler took the other. Between the two of them, they got her back down the hall, up the stairs and into the darkness and the chilly evening air.
Their taxi, patiently waiting, was before them and they could get the hell out of there. It was late enough, ten-thirty when they finally got the grief-stricken Lucinde checked into a hotel. Close to the railroad station where she could easily depart on the early train, she had quickly ruled out an overnight train, although the possibility had been raised. She had questions, questions about Didier’s death, which they patiently tried not to answer. She had promised to call room service and that she would try and eat something.
The place wasn’t the best, but it was a respectable commercial hotel frequented by businessmen, salesmen and other professional travelers.
Hubert promised that one or both would be there to pick her up. They would make sure the bill was paid, and see her off in the morning. It was the least they could do, he said. The blank look in her eyes was enough to shut him up after a few brief remarks, all of which seemed necessary to the occasion. He felt really bad for her.
Finally they were done.
The detectives were dead beat, their minds still reeling from the contrast—interminable hours on the train, going there and coming back, and then the chilling contradiction raised by Lucinde’s firm identification.
Everything in their training screamed out against pressing a witness—but it was very odd. Monique lived in Paris. Didier worked from Paris, and somehow she was more real—she had more credibility. That wasn’t very logical, but they had at least seen her marriage certificate. And yet, Lucinde was the mother of two of his children. No wonder my head hurts, thought Hubert.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Hubert nodded.
“Flip a coin?”
Speak Softly My Love Page 15