Speak Softly My Love (13 page)

“
Oh. I really don’t know.”

“
Okay, we’ll check with his secretary.”

“
Yes, you’re lucky. He’s our senior buyer and the only one
that even has a secretary. She kind of runs the show when he’s not
around.”

Hubert
nodded thoughtfully.

“
It’s nice work if you can get it.” Tailler sounded distinctly
humble by this point.

The
gentleman laughed aloud.

After
another round of hand-shakes, they were shown out the door by a
raven-haired young beauty named Prideaux. She looked just as good
from in front as she did from behind. She was personal assistant to
Monsieur Gaudet himself. After another short wait in the reception
area, Violet came out of her space and handed them some
hastily-typed sheets.

“
This is by no means complete.”

“
Thank you.” The list was single-spaced.

There
were cities and towns, the names of hotels all over the
place.

“
When did Monsieur Godeffroy’s train leave,
Mademoiselle?”

“
He was taking the six-thirty-five for Orleans and Tours. He
was leaving Friday morning. He would be making all the
stops.”

Back to
Friday again. Tailler didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Someone
at the station might recognize his photo. One more thing to pile on
the workload.

“
And how long was he expected to be away?”

“
At least ten days, perhaps as long as two weeks. His record
is nineteen days on the road.”

Hubert
nodded at that. A good time to kill and run—

“
Hmn.”

“
Did Monique call here looking for him? Last week?”

She gave
Tailler a blank look and shook her head.

“
You could ask at reception.”

“
Thank you.”

At the
reception desk, the girl said she hadn’t been on duty last Thursday
or Friday. At that point they decided to give it up while they were
ahead of the game. With the story getting stranger and with no hard
evidence to go on, they could only cause so much disruption without
generating friction, and ultimately, complaints from the
taxpayers.

There
was the sense of let-down as they found the car, unmolested by
traffic officers in the short time they’d been away.

“
Merde. Now what?” Hubert was tempted, just this once, to let
Tailler drive.

After a
quick mental review, recalling the rather amateur status of his
partner, he reconsidered. More than anything, he just wanted to get
back to the office in one piece. Tailler was almost better with the
car when they let him go off on his own—it saved a lot of
heartaches. A certain amount of screaming and hair-pulling went
with the territory otherwise.

“
Your guess is as good as mine.”

“
When in doubt, let’s do lunch.”

“
Sure. Just promise me one thing. No beer this time—and no
girls.”

“
Boy. You really do have a one-track mind.”

“
That’s two tracks. Don’t worry, Hubert. Don’t you ever give
up. You’ll corrupt me yet.”

Chapter Twelve

Without a lot of options, they went to the nearest
working-class saloon. Hubert didn’t hesitate, as he who hesitates
is lost. Tailler took a moment and read the colourfully-chalked
menu on the big board by the door out front. For whatever reason a
Reuben sandwich sounded pretty good, either that or pastrami on
rye. Something exotic like that. He’d never actually
had
a Reuben. That had
something to do with it. Just something from an old pulp
magazine,
Private Detective.

As a
boy, he’d lived for the pulps. Look where it had gotten him, as
Mother would say.

His
partner didn’t seem to care.

After one last look around, Tailler stumped up the front
stairs, to be temporarily blinded by the darkness of the interior.
Some hokey music was coming out of the radio-box. Even in France
there were hillbillies. It was bolted high up on the wall. It would
require a ladder to change the volume or the station. The man knew
his customers. There were pool tables at the back, three or four of
them that he could see. The place had an agreeable smell of beer,
tobacco and fried onions or battered, deep-fried
something.

Whatever
it was, it smelled pretty good.

Hubert
had already settled in. Tailler came in, looking around and not
seeing him. He had to seek him out. It was one of those L-shaped
spaces, one sometimes wondered how they did it so consistently.
They were always knocking down interior walls and then building
them up again. The landlord probably owned a whole row or the whole
block. A big bank or insurance company or something. The face of
the building was narrow. On the other side of the wall to his right
was a barbershop, after that a cafe. Bars didn’t need all the
windows of a storefront. Bars were supposed to be dim and cool
inside. Maybe that was why. The décor was predictable, cheap and
generic art nouveau with a lot of wear.

There
was some grime involved as well.

Hubert
wasn’t alone when he finally caught up.

Standing beside Hubert was quite the bruiser, and while his
partner’s voice was mild and accommodating, Emile didn’t like the
attitude. It was written all over the guy, big arms and long
side-burns and a toothpick sticking out of one corner of his mouth.
The pointy boots made a certain statement, and it said
punk.

The air
reeked of sweat and sarcasm.

The
bartender was there. Not being stupid, he wasn’t taking sides. The
gentlemen would work it out.

They
usually did.

“
I’m sorry, but I didn’t realize we required a reservation—”
Characteristically, Hubert was trying to be polite, easing the
situation by making a joke out of it. “Perhaps we do bring the tone
down a
bit
—”

He
didn’t see why he should move, though. There were exactly eleven
people in the place, all male. It was a prime spot, right on the
end of the bar and farthest away from the cash register and
entrance. The bar was clean. There were no drinks or ashtrays
there. No bowls of peanuts. Playing billiards when he came in, the
guy was looking for trouble. The question was, why would a good
sort like Hubert ever bother to give it to him?

“
Surely we can all get along.” He raised an eyebrow and a
glass, smiling confidently.

“
Come on, asshole. This is my seat.”

Tailler always wondered,
afterwards
that is, where it came
from. It happened all too quickly for his liking.

“
Beat it, punk.” He slammed a shoulder into the guy, knocking
him back and then stopped short as the fellow scrambled backwards,
barely keeping his feet.

The
toothpick went flying. Hubert set the glass down
quickly.

“
Unless there’s a problem here?”

“
You’d better believe there’s a problem.” The man looked
carefully around, a sly look under lowered lids.

Tailler
looked around to a straggle of shocked faces and then
nodded.

“
Let’s see what you got. Punk.”

Hubert
rose hastily to pull out his police badge, but Tailler put a hand
on his arm and stopped him. Hubert subsided, but not
entirely.

Not just
yet.

“
It’s okay. My treat.”

The fellow gathered his wits and recovered his balance,
half-crouching there as he decided what to do. The place was
definitely quieter now thought Hubert. There was only the scratched
and tinny disc going round and round on the turntable downtown at
the radio station and coming in over the airways. Tailler already
had the fighting stance, right foot forward, slightly turned in.
His hands were at his sides, looking like a rank amateur to anyone
who knew anything. The unspoken suggestion was that
Tailler,
wasn’t
really
ready to start
anything. He was just big, he thought he was tough and the other
guy must certainly back down.

Hubert
was frozen in place.

The guy
was definitely strong-looking. Considering the neighbourhood, he
might be tough enough to cause a serious problem. Especially if he
had friends, which was distinctly possible. A couple of guys in a
corner booth were halfway out of their seats, but still undecided.
That wouldn’t last very long. They settled in but only just, eyes
intent.

There was a
snick
and a gleam of light from down low beside the
guy’s right leg.

Hubert
squawked. He spun and straightened vertically in his seat as the
knife appeared and the fellow lunged at Tailler. Hubert scrabbled
for his gun, finding the butt and then he felt a whole lot better
about things. He sat there with his hand under his coat, muzzle
poking at the fabric. He could hit him from here, if only Tailler
wasn’t in the way.

Tailler,
turning in, had grabbed the wrist of the knife hand and pulled it
along. The arm, straight and low, kept going. Tailler spun with it
and threw the right shoulder again, right into the guy’s face.
Tailler spun, pulling the arm up and over. He locked the knife arm
in place with a quick forearm wrap-around that paralyzed the knife
hand. With the guy’s head in behind his right armpit, he gave a
quick pinch to the nerve endings in the wrist, already spinning the
body of his victim into a new position…

“
Ah!”

The hand
let go and the knife fell to the floor at Hubert’s feet. Tailler
turned the guy like a rag doll, big paws up under the armpits. The
man’s feet were up and off the ground. He dropped him hard on his
heels, the man’s jaws clicking, and then Emile changed the
grip.

Tailler
had his right hand up in the guy’s face, his left knee in between
the guy’s legs. The man’s arm was straight up and he hovered on
tiptoes. Leaning forward, keeping away from potential kicks,
Tailler towered over him as he pushed the unshaven jowls up, up,
up…powerful hand clamped on the jaws. The guy’s arm was locked in
place. The free arm batted ineffectually at Emile, but he was in
too close. Suddenly Tailler chuckled and relaxed, a kind of
demonstration. He was taking an awful chance. He gave a playful
shove in the chest and the guy half-fell onto a table, fortunately
an empty one.

“
Argh.” The guy shook his head in disbelief.

He
didn’t like that very much.

The man
was quick on his feet. Down low and in close, he was a handful.
Tailler parried a couple of sweeping side-kicks with contemptuous
ease. Hubert abandoned the bar stool and side-stepped, getting out
of there as the men rotated. They circled like wrestlers, each
seeking to get the first and the best hold.

One
good, clean shot would do it. With six bullets, Hubert was safe
enough.

He cast
a quick eye around. Everyone frozen in place.

The
man’s hand clamped on his left wrist. Tailler twisted his arm,
almost breaking the lock. He grabbed the other fellow’s wrist now.
Tailler laughed, straightening up.

The big
detective began to pull the man closer, cocking his right arm up
and back. He was just waiting, or so it seemed.

The look
on Tailler’s face was priceless. The bruiser decided not to go
there. Tailler let go, and with the guy’s arm stiff as he still
resisted, he shoved him back. There was one quick backhand from the
right hand and the slap echoed through the building.

The man
stood there, shocked as shit and humiliated as all hell. But now he
knew better.

“
More?” Tailler tapped his chin with an index finger. “Come
on, you little prick. Let’s have it.”

The poor fucker, with what was a look of forlorn desperation
on his face, pulled back and then drove the hardest right-handed
punch he could muster. By any objective standard of measurement,
it
should
have
landed in the jaw or throat area. Tailler stopped it dead, with a
clap of his left paw, snapping up from nowhere in a split second.
They stood there for a moment. Tailler leaned in and gazed deep
into those troubled eyes. The man tried to get his hand away and he
couldn’t even do it.

Tailler
let the hand go.

“
Want to try that again?”

The man
shook his head.

“
Go sit where I can keep an eye on you.”

The man
looked a little askance.

“
When we’re done our lunch, we’ll be out of your hair. No hard
feelings. Comprene vous?”

The man
nodded.

Unexpectedly, he stuck out a hand.

“
I’m Leonard. Incidentally.” He licked his lips, in all
humility.

His
Adam’s apple bobbed.

“
Emile. And this is Hubert.”

“
I’m very pleased to meet you gentlemen.”