J. Janes - Tapestry

‘Come, come, what is this? More suspicion? You know as well as I, the market is flooded with objects of virtu. Business has been good and when I can, I pick up what fancies me.’

Hubert Quevillon couldn’t resist darting a knowing glance at his mentor, Flavien Garnier, who patently ignored his subordinate. ‘Of course, I meant nothing other than that I, too, appreciate such things, Colonel.’ If Hermann had any further thoughts of being incautious, he had, one hoped, now thought better of it. ‘Let’s get back to our discussion of the Ritz. Surely Agent Garnier must have some idea of who our Trinite victim was to have met.’

‘For sex,’ muttered Hubert Quevillon.

‘None,’ grunted Garnier, the black horn-rims lending severity to the silent warning he gave his subordinate.

‘Not a General , a Generalmajor , or even a Major ?’ asked Hermann, the Deutsch deliberate.

Garnier tapped cigarette ash into a cupped palm, the dark brown eyes behind those specs not even having to glance down at it.

‘The assistant doorman who delivered the note to the Guillaumet subject’s concierge refused to tell me. His job, he said, and I must agree with him, Colonel, would not only have been jeopardized but forfeited. Decour, the head doorman of the Ritz, is an absolute bastard.’

Agent Garnier was as if of reinforced concrete, thought St-Cyr. No doubt this impersonator of himself ate his meals as though still in the trenches just as Hermann did, stolidly lump by lump while waiting for the next onslaught, but something would have to be said. ‘And how, please, did you learn of her tragic assault?’

Was it to be nothing but the most inane of questions from this Surete? wondered Garnier. St-Cyr must have gone through that desk of Hubert’s and his own but had been valiantly trying to hide the fact. ‘Like everyone else, we noticed it in the newspapers.’

‘She takes a good photo, doesn’t she?’ quipped Quevillon who seemed always to be driven to let his gaze flick from this Surete to Hermann, as if not just to gauge what the response might be, but to incite it if possible.

‘We were as distressed as yourselves,’ countered Delaroche warily.

‘But none of you had the unenviable task of having to find her, Colonel. Perhaps Agent Garnier would be so good as to tell us who else was tailing Madame Guillaumet?’

‘Yes, tell us,’ breathed Hermann, dragging out his notebook as Quevillon brushed crumbs from the creased knees of trousers that still had the turn-ups of the 1930s.

‘You see, Colonel, your assistant may well have noticed he wasn’t alone in asking questions about her,’ said St-Cyr.

‘Someone sure as hell knew what that “subject” of yours was up to,’ added Hermann.

‘Flavien, did you or Hubert … ?’ hazarded Delaroche. ‘Kohler, must you write everything down?’

There were no bite marks on the colonel’s wrists or hands either, no broken-off, closely trimmed fingernails. In short, none of these three could have assaulted the Trinite victim, nor could Delaroche have been bitten by Elene Artur. ‘Oh, sorry. Force of habit, I guess.’

‘There were two of them, Colonel,’ said Garnier levelly.

‘Two?’ asked Louis who had yet to accuse Garnier of impersonating a Surete.

‘ Oui . Both of medium height, the one much bigger about the waist than the other, who was built like a wedge, and probably as strong as an ox. They must have seen that I was on to them, for puff, they vanished.’

And how very convenient, thought St-Cyr, but something had had to be given and Garnier had done so. For each advance, first the little retreat; for each lie, the slender element of truth.

Quevillon flashed a knowing grin, but had to lose it suddenly under a scowl from the colonel. ‘And when, please, was that?’ asked St-Cyr.

‘Yes, when?’ asked Hermann.

These two would never be convinced to leave well enough alone and to cooperate, felt Garnier. ‘At first I thought a competing agency must be after the same things, but then they lost interest. Colonel, how was I to have known the subject would be assaulted and robbed? How was Hubert?’

‘Raped and beaten,’ said Quevillon, darting an expectant glance at each of them. ‘But … but wasn’t there something else rammed up inside the …’

‘Hubert!’ cautioned Delaroche.

‘The truncheon of a gendarme de controle, peut-etre ?’

A traffic cop. The press hadn’t known of it, thought Kohler, not even that young doctor at the Hotel-Dieu had been specific, but Louis wasn’t going to let on and didn’t pause while repacking that pipe of his and making sure his pouch was again filled to overflowing. ‘And with Madame Barrault and Gaston Morel?’ he asked.

St-Cyr had not only stolen more pipe tobacco, he was like a termite with this little interview of theirs, snorted Garnier to himself. Sometimes one couldn’t hear the termites in the night, sometimes they would set up such a racket, sleep was impossible but as with all such insects, it was often best to give them something to gnaw on while one got the paraffin and the match or the solution of arsenic and sugar. ‘They were enjoying each other’s company in secret, or so they thought.’

Hastily Hubert Quevillon pushed that hank of hair back off his brow. ‘But I was able to gain access to that little nest of theirs in the Hotel Grand and to watch the circus through a crack in the bedroom door.’

‘Hubert …’ tried Delaroche.

‘ Toute nue , the legs spread and down on her knees with Morel’s bitte in her hands and …’

‘HUBERT! that is enough,’ snapped Garnier, impatiently flicking cigarette ash into that palm of his. ‘The inspectors asked if you had noticed anyone else tailing the Barrault subject.’

‘Yes, did you notice others were “investigating” the woman’s private life?’ said Hermann.

‘Isn’t that what an agent prive does?’ countered Quevillon. ‘Ville shy;neuve, the manager of the Cinema Imperial, did tell me that others had been making enquiries. With women like that it’s understandable, is it not? The Barrault subject needed the part-time work and he gave her just enough of it to have the use of her and often.’

Oh and did he? asked Kohler silently. Quevillon avoided glancing at the colonel and for a moment no one could find a thing to say but was this twit of an agent prive confident they couldn’t be touched? Delaroche, having tired of his cigar, had quickly stubbed it out, then polished off the last of the Romanee-Conti, one of the finest of Burgundies, if not the finest and once given to Louis XIV spoonful by patient spoonful, the Sun King’s doctors thinking it might cure the great one’s painful fistula, an outright case of gastric ulcers, no doubt.

Quevillon lit another cigarette, his fifth, or was it the sixth? ‘I have the proof,’ he said, tasting it too. ‘Sworn statements from the cinema’s staff as well as from its manager.’

‘But … but, monsieur, these others who were tailing her?’ asked Louis, gesturing companionably with that pipe hand of his. ‘Could we not have …’

‘Those others, Inspectors, also didn’t maintain their surveillance,’ said Garnier flatly.

‘But were they the same two as with the Guillaumet investigation?’ insisted Louis as if he believed every word of what had been said.

‘That’s correct but we didn’t see them,’ said Garnier. ‘It was only after having been given a description of them, that Villeneuve of the Imperial became certain they were the same. We didn’t expect anyone else to have been tailing the subject, Colonel. Ah! perhaps a slip-up on my part, the need always to be in more than two places at once. One of the usherettes must have let them know we’d been in and asking questions.’