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| Jardine, the butler. |
Louis Shalako
As long as they had the
car, Gilles and Pelletier dropped the other two off at the front door of the
Quai and then proceeded to their next stop. The drive was taken up by Gilles
talking to the young officer, and giving him a set of very simple instructions.
He had the notebook out and wrote out a list of questions as they drove, trying
to keep it neat and clean and readable.
“Any questions?”
“Not really, not about
any of that—”
“Yes? Go on, spit it
out.”
“Well. Ah—meaning no
disrespect, sir. I was just wondering how Detective LeBref got into the
department at all. Er, what with being so short and all…”
“Oh, that was easy. You
see, he lied about his height.” Maintenon grinned into disbelieving eyes. “Oh,
and the examiner signed off on it, so that was all right.”
He went on.
“One or two of us
vouched for him, and I guess no one had the heart to contradict.” And after a
while, no one ever questioned it anymore. “Once he got into the Academy as a
cadet, there wasn’t much to hold him back.”
“Huh.” Pelletier was shaking
his head, but it would appear that they were there and there were other things
to think about. “Unbelievable—really.”
“Yes, it is. The funny
thing is, it’s true.” Those had been very different times and that was just the
truth. “He’s also very good, which helps. I’ve also seen him take down a man
who was, quite literally, twice his size.”
Pelletier looked over,
eyebrows raised.
“A good, solid,
round-house kick to the side of the knee. Hard shoes, get them in the right
place. They’ll go down—LeBref knew that, the other guy didn’t. Never assume
you’re going to win, Édouard.”
The young man nodded.
“That makes sense.”
This was an impressive
house indeed, five stories, and a good fifteen metres across the façade. The
trendy Marais neighbourhood was in the Fourth Arrondissement, and from a top
window they might have been able to see the spire of Notre Dame. Assuming his
orientation was correct, and they had followed a few twists and turns in
getting here. But the cathedral would have to be off to the west and not too
very far either. With multiple balconies, wrought-iron railings and decorative
stone work in the Art Nouveau style, it was impressive indeed, and as if to
underline that fact, there were two stable-type doors on the right side at
street level that looked like an integral coach building. Whether there were
horses and carriages in there he rather doubted, but expensive automobiles
would not be parked in alleys or on the street—that would be just a little too
much temptation. It was a little unusual for Paris, even for the rich. They
were new on the case and a surprise visit might just shake something—anything,
loose.
They hadn’t even
bothered to phone ahead, as such houses had servants in by the day or living on
the premises and fed in the household. Those servants were the real object of
their mission, or so Gilles told Pelletier.
Assuming the people
weren’t total tyrants, the employment would be an opportunity for quiet, and
well-spoken people with perhaps not too many other, relevant skills in the modern,
industrial economy. They had eyes and ears and a certain loyalty to the
employer—the family, as it were. He told him that too.
“Sir?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
Gilles had taken a good look, just gaining an impression. “Push the button.”
Pelletier was impressed,
to see the door opened up by what could only be the butler.
“Yes, gentlemen?”
“I’m Constable
Pelletier and this is Inspector Maintenon.”
“Come in, please,
gentlemen.”
Once in the door,
Pelletier turned.
“And what’s your name,
sir?”
“My name is Jardine,
sir.” Monsieur Jardine was wearing a black crepe armband, the sign of mourning,
which didn’t make all that much sense considering the tailed monkey suit was
black as well.
“Thank you.” The young
man made a quick note of it, although all of this would be in the
reports—presumably.
He gave Gilles a look.
His cue.
“We understand Monsieur
Boitard is at work, today. Would the lady of the house be at home, Monsieur
Jardine?”
“Ah, yes, Inspector. I
believe she has finished with luncheon and will most likely be found in the
sitting room.” Extending an arm, he gave a little half-bow and stepped back a
little. “Or if you prefer, we do have an elevator.”
“Er, no, the stairs are
fine, Monsieur.” Gilles wasn’t much of a fan of elevators, they were just a
little claustrophobic for some reason.
Putting their hats down
on an ornate side table, they followed him up a curving staircase and up to the
second floor, which the English for some reason would have called the first.
And it was just like in the photos…as for the carpet, it had been
professionally cleaned in the meantime, with nary a trace of dirt or smudging.
Whatever underlay that
rug was damned deep and very soft, in a luxury known to very few…
It was almost a shame
to walk across that rug, and this in spite of carefully wiping their feet of
imaginary contamination at the front door.
***
Jardine had left them,
and the maid or housekeeper, dabbing at the eyes with a handkerchief, had
followed closely behind on a brief word from the lady.
Madame Louise Boitard
was clad in black from head to toe, although indoors and in the privacy of her
own home, she was not veiled as she would be in Church or even if she had set
even one foot outside that front door.
People were entitled to
their privacy, and her grief was written on her calm visage.
As for the victim,
Cynthie, she’d been interred a few days before.
As befitted one of her
status, she appeared to have a kind of ruthless self-control, in terms of
conspicuous displays of emotion or even personality.
“Good morning, Madame Boitard.
We regret this intrusion, however, we must proceed with our investigations.”
Maintenon gave a stiff little bow, and waited for the invitation…
“Thank you. Please be
seated, gentlemen.”
With a glance at
Gilles, Pelletier whipped out the trusty notebook and took a seat on the other
end of the couch, more facing his way than hers, the body language clearly
representing deference, not so much to the lady as to him. Gilles took a chair
opposite the lady. He was not there to confront the lady.
“This is Constable
Pelletier and he will be assisting us this afternoon.”
She gave him a polite
nod and a short glance.
“Very well, Constable.”
“First, you have our
deepest condolences, Madame Boitard. Naturally, we understand that this is
deeply painful for yourself, as well as friends and family. School-friends, for
example.” The constable had a good voice, strong and deep, and a surprising
warmth, which would be difficult to fake.
She sighed, giving
Maintenon a long look.
“Surely, we have been
all over this before—” The crime had happened a little over a week previously,
and for the first two or three days at least, the flics would have tromped all over the place, and interviewed pretty
much everybody.
Maintenon shrugged, and
let the younger man take it.
“Yes, I understand,
Madame, but it seems the investigation has reached an impasse. For that reason,
the Special Homicide Unit has been assigned the case. Inspector Maintenon’s
reputation is well-known. Er—I’m not too sure why I am here, but that’s his
choice, and in fact, any police officer has the training, and the ability, and
the legal and moral obligation to investigate any crime, and homicide is the
most serious of offences under the law…other than that, I go where I am told.”
His quick and direct look into Maintenon’s eyes had a trace of frank humour,
but he quickly dropped back to the page.
Louise nodded gravely,
following along.
Maintenon closed his
mouth, and listened in fascination as Édouard flipped a page and started in on
the questions—his own questions, and not provided by anything other than his
own mind.
The kid was good,
considering his actual age and experience. He’d give him that much.
It wouldn’t do to
underestimate such a mind, and the fellow clearly had some instincts of his
own.
“Okay, Madame. Let’s go
back to school friends for starters. Did Cynthie have any special friends, ones
she might have mentioned more often, or maybe brought them home for dinner or a
holiday or something? Quite frankly, Madame, the longer the list, the better,
and we’re looking for detail here. The point is, that someone must know
something, perhaps the sort of thing she might not tell…her own family?”
“Well…I suppose, I know
what you’re getting at. The sort of thing she wouldn’t tell…tell her own
mother…” There was a catch in the voice and she reached for her own
handkerchief.
Still, she had control
and the eyes remained dry although the mouth quivered.
Maintenon hauled out
his own notebook and started taking a few notes of his own, leaving Pelletier
to handle the interview without having the distraction of having to do
everything himself.
“Okay. So, who would
you say would be her best friend at school…”
***
It was gratifying to
see that the constable had asked pretty much all of Gilles’ questions, plus a
few more besides. The pair had filled up a few pages of notes. With the
permission of the lady of the house, they’d be going through all of the
available servants, all of whom would be getting the same sort of questions. In
the meantime, the pair stood in the girl’s bedroom. The purpose was two-fold.
One, just to get a look at the place, and the layout, and gaining some kind of
impression. The second was to review privately, what they had learned if
anything at all.
As for impressions, it
was all very feminine, with a pair of large windows looking out over a
courtyard and the backs of similar maisons
across the way.
“So, Édouard. We have
photos, which you have not seen, and reports, which you have not read. Luckily,
I have. There’s nothing really startling here, other than the fact the girls
slept on the third floor and the boys on the fourth. It’s a big house, they
have the space, and it’s quite a large family, which is a bit unusual in, er,
the more prosperous families…”
Live-in servants on the
top floor, mostly female. Jardine had his own little suite, tucked in at the
end of the second-floor back hallway. Right behind the kitchen, which would
have taken up Maintenon’s entire flat in terms of square footage. Other than
the driver, who had a room just in behind the garage area, Jardine was pretty
much all that stood for security, although he was hardly a bodyguard—more of a
trusted, senior servant and no doubts about that.
“And mom and pop have
the second floor, along with rooms for honoured house-guests, as the lady said.
It’s a different world, where entertaining lots of other folks, admittedly
those with money, is de rigeur—hospitality,
even generosity, is expected in the rich…”
“Hmn. Exactly.” Gilles
looked at his watch. “Well, I suppose we’d better tackle the housemaids—figuratively
speaking of course.”
Pelletier grinned at
that one.
“I’ll take that
black-haired one in the kitchen…if you don’t mind, sir.” Realizing what he’d
said, he sort of half-froze for a second, looking a bit stunned.
Maintenon laughed in
spite of himself.
“Yes, I should think
that’s best.”
Whatever Pelletier
might have said next, he managed to bite that one off and swallow it.
“Er—yes, sir.”
END
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