The Art of Murder (26 page)

She looked at her husband. Sighing as
if it was a real heartbreak, she turned to Gilles and nodded,
casting her eyes to the mantel clock.

“
Yes, we’re sorry, Gilles,
but we really can’t stay.” Turning to Madame Lefevre, she made a
universal gesture. “May we use the phone?”

“
We’d better phone for a
cab. Gilles, you really need to get a car some day.” Paul was a
great automotive buff, as though his own little three-cylinder
puddle-jumper validated his racing mystique or
something.

He took it seriously, to the extent of
buying magazines and wearing that ridiculous hat. Considering what
that car actually was, their decision to come up by train was
probably a wise one.

“
I have a card in the
kitchen.” Madame Lefevre turned with authority and went to make the
phone call.

His brother liked cars. He could wax
enthusiastic on the subject, but in that moment Gilles had a real
liking for his sister-in-law. She had planned it perfectly, and
perhaps she understood him a little better than it was polite to
let on. Gilles was tempted to wink at her, but thought better of
it. They all stood, with the kids almost bolting for the front hall
and their coats and shoes. His brother stood close and they clasped
both hands. Paul looked down a little on him, being something like
nine centimetres taller, and a little thicker through the
jaw.

“
Well, brother.” They
embraced, and then Isobel stepped in for a peck on both cheeks,
which he dutifully returned.

Madame Lefevre returned with a bright
look.

“
They’re just on the next
block. A car will be here shortly.” She looked at Gilles. “Dinner
will be in an hour.”

“
Thank you, Madame Lefevre.”
The lady went back to the kitchen.

Paul slapped him on the
shoulder.

“
She’s a good old girl.
You’re lucky to have her.”

“
Hmn, yes.” Gilles coloured
slightly, as there was just the fine edge of some other suggestive
thought in there.

It was the thin end of the wedge or
something.

***

There was a phone in his den, one
beside his bed, and one in the end of the kitchen.

Gilles was just sitting down to a
braised lamb chop, mashed potatoes and gravy with buttery small
peas and a tossed green salad when it rang. For a moment, anger
raged internally, and this had better be important.

Considering his social life and his
isolation, this could only be bad news or official
business.

He was struggling to his feet but she
came in from the kitchen and held up a hand.

“
Let me get it.” The thing
rang yet again.

He subsided and cut a couple of hasty
bites of lamb, chewing and gulping one down as she picked
up.

“
Yes?” She listened.
“Yes.”

His guts flipped over when she said it
again with a certain inflection.

“
Yes.”

She stuck her head in.

“
It’s for you.”

Unless it was one of her family,
calling on some sort of emergency, it could be for no one else. He
took the phone from her outstretched hand as she
retreated.

“
Gilles! Gilles.”

“
Yes? Who is this?” The
voice was very familiar, warm and intimate in his ear, but he
couldn’t place the man immediately.

It wasn’t anyone from work, and that
confused him.

“
Gilles, this is
Roger.”

“
What? Roger who? Oh. What’s
going on?” Gilles settled instantly into professional mode,
recognizing his friend’s voice now.

“
I’m at the station. Guess
who has a little weekend vacation?”

“
Hah? Who? What are you
talking about?” Gilles’ heart began beating strongly.

The tension in his friend’s voice was
palpable, his breath hoarse and ragged as if he was desperately
afraid of something.

“
Our friend Babineaux. I’m
sure it’s him. He’s been in the papers. He spoke at a meeting once,
I’m sure it’s the same fellow.”

“
Oh, really? Well, they’re
under no restrictions.” Not since their own planted story in the
paper, not if it was to be believable.

Who else was likely to bolt, now that
the case was semi-officially closed in the public eye? He would
have thought Alain, or even Madame Fontaine before Babineaux, who
was very much a staid and sober individual.

“
Yes, yes, I get all that.”
Roger was hurried, rushed for time and for air. “Gilles, there was
some significant activity on the Exchange today. We don’t have time
to talk about it. Your friend is going to Switzerland. I’m at the
Gare de Lyon now. He’s bought a ticket and he’s having a sandwich,
and I’m hungry as hell too.”

“
What? There’s nothing to
stop him.” Gilles mind was blank for a moment.

What could he do about it? And what was
the significance?

“
There’s just time, Gilles.
Why don’t you get down here?”

“
What?”

“
Come on, Gilles, what do
you have to lose? Besides, it might be fun.”

Roger was mad. There was a brief slash
of anger, deep in his lower abdomen.

“
What? Are you out of your
mind?” But Gilles’ thoughts were already turning to his coat, his
shoes, his keys, and his passport.

Money. He would need a little money,
maybe even quite a lot of it.

“
Damn you, Roger. Damn you.
All right, I’ll be there as quick as I can make it.”

Merde.

“
Gilles! Listen. If you miss
the train, take the next one. I’ll leave word at the kiosk, but
we’re going to Geneva. When you get there, if I’m not waiting at
the station, check into the Hotel Flamberge and wait for me, all
right?”

Damnation.

“
Yes, yes, yes.” Gilles
flung the mouthpiece on the hanger and raced to find his passport
and open up the safe to see how much money he had.

What the hell. As Roger said, it might
even be fun, and as the good Lord knew, he had nothing better to
do. The clothes on his back and that stinking white raincoat would
have to suffice. It would have to do as a disguise. He could be
someone else for a while. It was the weekend, after all.

Merde. It was the only word he could
think of, as he wondered frantically where Madame Lefevre might
keep that damned taxi company’s card.

Chapter
Nineteen

A mad dash across
Paris

It was a mad dash across the middle of
Paris and then a frustrating wait behind other people at the ticket
kiosk, all the while blessing his good luck. It could have been so
much worse. With the cab company dispatcher recognizing Maintenon
from the address and phone number more than any actual familiarity,
the car waiting out front was big, black and fast. The driver was a
real pro, and evening traffic was light. The man appeared to have a
lot of experience. The ride was smooth but fast. Gilles threw money
at him and bolted, leaving the door open behind. He took the steps
three at a time.

Standing in the line-up, there were
only two people ahead of him at this particular window, and it was
the last train of the evening for this destination. People seemed
to know what they wanted and had the correct change. This was
unusual, in his experience.

“
Oh. Just in time sir, I am
about the make the announcement.” Like just about everybody in the
place, he glanced at his watch in some unconscious
habit.

He totaled it up. He had the neat
little pieces of pasteboard lined up in front and was stapling
things on them. Gilles shoved a hundred-franc note through the slot
and waited in aching suspense.

“
Keep the change.” His anger
was building in direct proportion to the man’s pettifogging
attention to detail.

“
It’s perfectly all right,
sir. They can’t leave until I announce it.” If only he would push
the ticket through the slot.

This was worse than the post office. In
his limited international travels both professionally and
personally, having once been to Belgium, people everywhere reviled
the post office. Perhaps it was better to say that they just didn’t
appreciate it.

“
Ahh…”

“
No, honestly, it’s quite
all right. Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Surete.” The clerk’s
eyes stabbed into his. “I recognized you from the
paper.”

He grinned at the look on Gilles’
face.

“
Give ‘em hell, eh,
Inspector?” He had a fiendishly clever look.

“
Oh, this is strictly for
pleasure.”

The man counted out his change in jig
time, nodding in a knowing fashion and sensing Gilles’s mood. He
put the change on top of his ticket and pushed it to
him.

“
Monsieur Phillipe is in the
third carriage.”

“
Argh.” Gilles grabbed his
small valise up off the floor and bolted for the
platform.

Striding along, there was a catch,
perhaps even a suppressed giggle apparent in the voice that
attempted to calmly and patiently announce in a clearly audible
fashion that the train was leaving in one minute. Like all such
announcements, the words were indecipherable, rattling and echoing
off the tiles and hard surfaces of the walls.

“
All aboard!” The conductor
was staring straight at him with an expectant look on his
face.

Of course, of course. His disguise
clearly wasn’t very good, judging by all the attention.

Gilles prayed that the fellow didn’t
bellow his name from seventy-five metres away, and was eternally
grateful that he didn’t. Monsieur Phillipe. Was that the best Roger
could come up with on the spur of the moment?

Without any training, having a
financial specialist, a civilian, along for company on the trip
would be challenging. That was one thing. But Gilles hoped that it
wouldn’t be as irritating as all hell. It was also extremely
dangerous working with amateurs.

***

“
Did you bring me something
to read, Gilles?” Roger’s greeting was glad enough, and they shook
hands like old friends. “Why so grumpy?’

“
Argh.”

“
The game is afoot, mon
ami.” Roger looked like a cat that had just swallowed a
canary.

“
Effing Geneva.” Gilles
settled in beside Roger, and in his role as a rough workman-type,
replete with baggy trousers and steel-toed shoes, the expletive was
in complete character. “Four hundred kilometres on a
train.”

He estimated it in his head. They might
make an average of sixty or even eighty kilometres an hour, and he
mentally added on time, a lot of time, for getting up to speed and
braking down again at every stop. He groaned inwardly.

Taking in his companion with cynical
eyes, Roger nodded.

“
The change will do you
good.”

He wished he really believed that, but
it looked more like a big pain in the arse.

“
Have you ever been on the
front page?” Gilles had some concerns about the two of them being
recognized instantly by their prey even at a distance.

After all, that was what Roger had
done.

“
Yes, a few times. But this
is new.” Roger stroked his finely-barbered mustache, with a goatee
and long sideburns.

“
Oh, yes, very nice.”
Maintenon had been clean shaven in the past, but in recent years
had adopted a neatly trimmed professional man’s
mustache.

Tonight he also sported a week or
more’s worth of whiskers. This only added to his discomfort. He was
discovering that he had a pretty strong self image, and what
perfect strangers thought of another perfect stranger meant a lot
to him. Perhaps it had something to do with personal status,
whatever that was. It might take some getting used to beyond the
physical sensations of greasy lips and an itchy stubble of a sort
which begged stroking.

Roger had some other interesting
news.

“
I hear Alain has
transferred all of the stuff from the studio out to the plant. He’s
setting up his own professional design bureau.” Roger nodded
thoughtfully. “It doesn’t take much brains, I suppose. I wonder how
he’ll do with the company.”

“
With somebody like that,
one wonders how well he will listen to advice.”

“
Yes, I suspect you’re
right. He’s an actor at heart, and he’s now in charge of his own
company. I guess the sister owns half, but of course she’s out of
the country. Still, money always talks.” Roger at least had an open
mind. “He can act like he knows what he’s doing. This is often
surprisingly effective.”

He grinned at Gilles, who was at least
listening.

“
It’s his responsibility
now.” Gilles wondered at the vagaries of Fate, and how Alain might
do.