The Art of Murder (2 page)

“
You’re a free man, Gilles.”
He had an understanding grin. “You’ve been a good boy, would you
like a sucker?”

“
Thank you, thank you.” It
came out just a little too fervently, but whatever happened in this
room stayed in this room.

Gilles wondered if dentists thought
that far ahead, what with sugar and tooth decay and all. He gravely
accepted the candy. Plenty of grown men were afraid of the dentist,
and at least Gilles had conquered that fear insofar as it was
necessary to do so. The doctor opened the door and a wave of cool,
clean and refreshing air hit him as he blundered through it. How
could dentists stand the smell of their own work, no matter how
much they charged? It must be a kind of love, he
thought.

It wasn’t that dentists were bad
fellows. Doctor Etienne was a fine person. But he just didn’t see
how they could stand it.

***

After making another appointment, and
enduring the social pressure of amiable but overly long goodbyes,
during which Gilles wondered if Etienne shook hands with every
patient he ever had after a visit, he stood on the pavement looking
for an available cab.

He was just raising his arm in a
desperate bid for attention, hoping against hope that the speeding
taxi going past on the wrong side of the road was indeed empty and
available. It was so hard to tell in this gloomy, overcast light,
but a familiar black car pulled out of its parking spot forty
metres up the road with a honk and the roar of a powerful engine
that had seen some hard wear.

“
Hop in, Inspector.” A
youthful face beamed out of the driver’s side window.

The roar of traffic almost drowned it
out, but he caught it.

“
Henri! Am I ever glad to
see you.” Gilles was almost impressed by this thoughtfulness, but
it was not to be.

“
Yes, well.” The humble
words, spoken in a non-committal tone, spoke or implied volumes of
things he was unaware of.

“
Ah.” Gilles settled back on
the hard-stuffed leather cushions as the car sped through traffic
with little hindrance. “I had forgotten what it was like. Thank
God, but it’s over with.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes.
Only a few more hours and he would sleep the sleep of the
damned.

“
Sorry, Inspector, but we
are in a hurry.” Henri squealed the tires going around a typically
bumpy street-corner, and he became aware that this was not the way
to the Quai.

“
Where?” Gilles gave a quick
shake of his head, sitting up again.

A fresh case should not surprise
him.

“
It’s not that one in the
river?” Gilles listened to the radio in the mornings while having
his morning coffee.

It helped him to keep a finger on the
pulse of current events. This was the sort of bullshit statement
they were trained to make in public relations interviews. Henri
caught his eye in the mirror.

“
Yes, that one, but another
one besides. That’s where we’re going now.”

Gilles checked his watch with a sigh.
He was hungry, but limited to soup for the rest of the day. He
hadn’t had any breakfast, either, and lunch was still a couple of
hours away. The doctor had told him to chew on the other side,
which he had been doing for quite some time now anyway.

“
Very well.” All in due
time. “Try not to kill us on the way, s’il vous plait?”

Henri grinned, but kept his face turned
to the road. So the floater was his then. Nothing he couldn’t deal
with.

“
Why, sure, Inspector.” It
was no big surprise when the throttle went down a little harder.
“Whatever you say, sir.”

There was nothing to be done about it.
They all drove like that. The badge was an excuse for bad driving
and a hardened outlook towards the slower breed of pigeon and even
the occasional unwary pedestrian, who at least rated a quick blast
on the horn.

Gilles grimaced as a set of handlebars
came perilously close to the right wing-mounted mirror. A
white-faced cyclist made a rude gesture, but Henri repressed the
urge to respond. The official car might be remembered.

“
Oh, don’t you worry,
Inspector. We have a real beauty lined up for you today.” Henri
looked back in the mirror at an attentive Gilles Maintenon. “I
think we can safely promise you this much, Inspector. You are
really going to love this one.”

The subdued chatter on the radio,
turned down but always there, reminded that crime and human tragedy
never slept.

***

Henri parked in front of the building,
a four-storey maison in the Rue Duvivier, with a line of dormer
windows above that. A gaggle of spectators muttered at their
arrival. There were no shouted questions from the one or two
reporters present, which was unusual. On the right leaf of a pair
of imposing, ten-foot tall walnut doors, a simple bronze plaque
proclaimed to the world that this was the home of Theodore Duval.
The name rang a bell, but Gilles couldn’t immediately place it.
Henri came around and let him out, befitting his status, as if he
couldn’t or shouldn’t operate a door. The man was an industrialist.
Gilles had read something about him in the papers. On this block
was a Utopian mix of flats, hotels, and typical for Paris, private
palaces, all or most with adjoining walls and zero clearance. It
was only the facades that showed individuality. It wasn’t
immediately clear if there was an alley or if the rear walls were
shared with the next block.

Duval’s facade was sort of hung, he’d
actually watched some workmen do it once, in a nice white Norwegian
marble, with bronze framing at every opening, and with a smoked
flat slab of glass in windows and doorway. At ground level were
ornate awnings covered with chocolate brown and gold trimmed
material. There were a number of bays up above, and a pair of
balconies linked by a narrow walk on the third floor. On the fourth
floor were two small balconies, one at each end. The railings were
of wrought iron.

“
Nice.” Gilles stood
regarding the imposing edifice.

The curved drive, arcing in from the
street, fronted right on the steps, and then bent back out to
another exit. There was a low, thick stone wall joining the two
entry drives. Iron gates provided night-time security, although he
wondered if they were ever actually used. The house was a statement
in reserved elegance. ‘Le Faubourg’ its ancient designation, was
one of the most fashionable neighbourhoods in Paris.

“
Sure beats a soaker from
the river.” Henri grinned, and Gilles couldn’t dispute
it.

“
With a little bit of luck,
I’m thinking they make a pretty good cup of coffee.” Henri hustled
up the steps to where a bored gendarme rocked on his heels and
calmly surveyed the onlookers without actually engaging in eye
contact with anyone.

“
Bonjour,
Inspector.”

Following more slowly, Gilles returned
the gendarme’s sketchy salute and entered the dark interior,
blinking after the harsh light of the street outside.

His jaw felt like a giant bee had stung
him. It was surprising how quickly it came on.

The floor was marble, as were columns
flanking an arch that led into another salon. It had a formal look
to it, despite or perhaps because of a blend of rococo design
elements and some modern Scandinavian furniture. The whole was
rendered more cheerful by well-chosen potted plants in Greek urns,
and yet it had a contrived look. This was no womanly influence,
turning a building of stone and mortar into a home. This was by
design, and expensive design at that. The ground floor was for
receptions and formal social events. It was the usual layout for a
house of this class.

“
What do you think,
Inspector?”

“
I’m thinking
homicide.”

“
Ah, you’re such a great
kidder, Inspector.” With an outstretched arm, Henri indicated what
must be the entrance to an elevator. “It’s a little tight. Just
push the button for the third floor.”

“
And you?” Gilles asked with
raised eyebrows.

“
There must be a kitchen
here somewhere.” Henri nudged him on the elbow. “Don’t be shy, sir.
Oh, you are in for a wonderful time!”

With that the rascal turned and headed
for a smaller alcove to the left of the entrance hall where nothing
was revealed except a small piece of blank wall and a quick turn to
the right.

***

“
Gilles, I’m glad you’re
here. We’re just about to pick the lock. Take a peek.” Rene Lavoie
gestured to the keyhole, a big old-fashioned skeleton type
lock.

“
Apparent suicide,
eh?”

They stood in the hallway, outside the
private study of Theodore Duval. This was where the man worked on
his inventions, which were legion, and where he had his private
papers, including technical drawings and patent applications. This
was according to Rene. He had gotten all of this from the
housekeeper, who waited further questioning downstairs. Gilles
remembered the name now, all right. Perhaps there was something
interesting here after all.

“
What do I expect to see?”
Gilles spoke in a level tone but the fact was his jaw was beginning
to ache in earnest and his patience was running out.

The psychological release of having the
thing done with was over, and all he wanted now was to lie on the
couch, lick his wounds, and get some rest after weeks of sleepless
nights.

“
There’s a dead man in
there.” Rene gave Gilles a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Don’t
worry, it’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”

Gilles bent and peered through the
keyhole. There was always a little shock of adrenalin in the guts,
but it was no big emotional trauma.

“
He’s dead all
right.”

It was not a pretty picture.

“
All right, be careful, we
want to examine that lock.” Rene waved forward Albert Giroux, the
lab specialist who would eventually be called upon to testify as to
his actions and observations here today.

“
This is a double-action
lock.” Giroux thought for a second. “The key can be reinserted, and
the inner cylinder unlocked by rotating in the opposite
direction.”

People locked or unlocked interior
doors, but didn’t necessarily leave the key in the hole. They often
took the keys with them rather than leave them in. In that sense,
it was different from a jewelry box or a chest, which only had
access for a key on one side.

“
Do me a favour. Can you
shoot a picture through the keyhole?” Gilles shrugged.

Giroux’s eyebrows rose, but he nodded
in the affirmative. He sorted through another black bag and came up
with another lens. This one required the use of a sturdy
collapsible tripod, and more time. The man was maddeningly
thorough, looking around inside the mechanism with the aid of
special lenses, mirrors, and yet another tiny camera, all of this
accompanied by the taking of extensive notes. Giroux was a mumbler,
a habit which Gilles could live with if only he would hurry
up.

“
There’s no other
key?”

Rene shrugged tolerantly.

“
That’s what they
say.”

Gilles nodded. Nothing was ever taken
at face value.

“
Who do we think it is?
Monsieur Duval, I presume?”

Rene nodded in agreement.

“
That’s what they
say.”

Gilles studied Rene for a moment,
intent upon his own physical misery.

“
So how have you
been?”

Rene gave him an odd look.

“
That hardly enters into the
equation.” Gilles had the feeling he had missed something. He
didn’t know how to ask, when it came to personal details from a
friend.

“
Sorry. It’s just that my
jaw is killing me.” Gilles pointed to his right cheek. “Dentist
pulled a molar.”

“
Ah.” Rene accepted this
without comment.

There was a long silence as they
watched Giroux. He went into his valise and carefully sorted
through an extensive collection of skeleton-type keys in assorted
sizes. A squad of investigators and the ubiquitous meat-wagon boys
hovered at the far end of the hallway, unwilling to engage in
pleasantries with the higher echelons. Perhaps it was conversation
with Giroux they feared. Photographs, fingerprints, blood-spatters,
dead bodies, this was what interested them. Mere locks were beneath
their interest, somebody else’s department, but of course Giroux
was a bit of a bug on the subject of mechanical security
devices.

The odd rumble of voices was easily
ignored. A quick burst of laughter from down there drew a quick
glance, but they were all familiar with the routine by now. Hushed
and reverent silence for the dead would have been too much to
expect.

“
This one should do it. This
model should turn easily.” There came a sound and Giroux withdrew
the key. “Wait.”

Suppressing a growl, Gilles watched the
man take another set of his damnably peculiar photos, and while he
admired his determination to leave absolutely nothing to chance,
there was a dead person with their face blown off in the next room.
Finally Giroux’s gloved hand gripped the knob just so,
theoretically preserving any prints that might be there, and he
turned the knob with authority. There would either be no prints, or
more likely, a million prints. It was that kind of a
day.