The Art of Murder (29 page)

Babineaux had a sense of
entitlement.

“
I see. You have arrested
Babineaux, but you found no physical evidence in his office or
home?” Chiappe winced at that one. “And of course the Swiss
authorities are notoriously uncooperative when it comes to crimes
of international finance, especially when one of their most famous
banks is involved.”

“
Yes. They’re also a haven
for just such shell companies as Babineaux was using. They pay
nominal taxes, and there are fees involved, often granted to
concessionaires for the re-selling of permits and
licenses.”

“
Of course.” Jean-Baptiste
gave a jerk of the head.

“
Monsieur Babineaux has one
key on his chain which he cannot account for.”

Chiappe eyed him curiously.

“
What of it?”

“
He says he can’t recall,
but I find it interesting that he would answer that question, while
pointedly refusing to answer our questions about his little trip to
Switzerland. The Societe Anonyme des Marchands isn’t returning our
calls, incidentally.”

“
And it doesn’t fit anything
at the Duval household?”

“
No.”

“
It doesn’t fit Alexis’
apartment, or a garden shed somewhere?” Chiappe was merely trying
to be helpful, but Gilles grinned at the thought processes. “Roger
has been very quiet.”

Roger Desjarlais took a deep
breath.

“
Wasn’t this whole thing
about a key to begin with? And yet it’s never been anything but
irrelevant.” The assistant Gerard, pen poised, looked from one to
the other.

“
It has also been useful, if
only in getting us a warrant.” Chiappe looked at Gilles.
“Right?”

“
No. It is relevant. I would
imagine that Babineaux was at one of Duval’s parties, perhaps a new
product launch, or merely an evening with friends. He went
rummaging around in a kitchen drawer, looking for a cork-screw or
something, and that key gave him ideas. Trust me, this was
premeditated murder—not a moment of passion. He had it all plotted
out before he ever set foot in the place.”

“
And. Alain took the
billiards table.” Chiappe tilted his head from side to side in
contemplation.

It was a lucky break. The Duvals loved
billiards. Alain couldn’t decide whether to sell the house or not,
but he grabbed that table.

“
Most cases couldn’t be
solved without the assistance of the public, Gilles.”

When Alain sank a ball in a corner
pocket, but it only rolled part way down the return tube, the solo
game he was playing was rudely interrupted. Alain, frustrated at
first, but then becoming curious, called a service company. Their
technician quickly found the source of the problem. Someone had
shoved a rolled-up children’s school scribbler down into it, filled
with columns of numbers in Theo Duval’s loose and idiosyncratic
handwriting.

The numbers bore a strong correlation
to Babineaux’s bonuses, and his subsequent purchases of stock, as
well as the stock purchases of the shell company. The inference was
that Theo had confronted Babineaux, probably by telephone, with
evidence of his perfidy, although it wasn’t on the face of it
illegal. What it was, was sneaky. Babineaux knew his game was up
and went to the train station in Lyons immediately.

“
A man like Theo Duval
wouldn’t have liked that at all, and it was a simple matter of
extension to infer some sort of confrontation. When the time came,
Duval was working in the studio. Babineaux got the gun from the
unlocked drawer. It really says something about him, but I think he
stuck it in his mouth and made him beg…”

It was clear enough even though
Babineaux was denying everything and had engaged a
lawyer.

“
So you checked at the train
station?”

“
Yes. That will be the final
nail in his coffin. Babineaux actually arrived the night before. He
tore up the ticket stub, or got rid of it in some other way. This
was a man who was conscientious about saving receipts and the like
for his expense account, and as a matter of fact it looks like the
only one unaccounted for. It’s out of character for Babineaux. This
is hardly conclusive. But we have a positive identification from
several witnesses. It was a slow night insofar as large numbers of
passengers are concerned, and he arrived very late. He is always
extremely well dressed. There is little doubt that it was him.
We’re looking for a certain cab driver. It’s prime turf there.
Dozens of cabs come and go at peak times. There are big firms,
small firms, and then the privateers, but they all know each other,
and sooner or later we’ll find the one who took him to
Duval’s.”

They were also conducting inquiries in
Lyons.

“
Gilles, how did Babineaux
get into the house unobserved by anyone else?” Chiappe’s eyes
glinted at him over the rim of his glass.

Gilles sighed, shoulders slumping
slightly.

“
I’m thinking he used the
key under the mat by the back door in the alley?”

“
What? Whoa! No one
mentioned that before.” Chiappe was shocked.

“
No.” Gilles had a look of
anger and regret. “It was the one obvious question we forgot to
ask. How in the hell did the killer get in? But of course I kept
thinking of someone actually in the building already. I’m very
sorry about that, and I take full responsibility. Monsieur
Babineaux is a clear thinker. As I said, the key in the kitchen
drawer gave him some ideas. In all likelihood, wearing gloves the
whole time, he simply dropped it back in on the way out. He was
cool enough, I suppose.”

“
What about the Moroccans?”
Chiappe had a point, but Gilles was satisfied with his
case.

He shrugged in a non-committal
fashion.

“
We’ll offer him life
imprisonment, and ask him the question. But first, he can have a
few weeks in a cell to think about it. It might actually be
completely unrelated. We’re asking around. If someone dirty gets
picked up on another matter, the information will be a bargaining
chip for them. They’ll sacrifice Babineaux, or whoever, for their
own hide. It’s a good bet.”

“
All right, Gilles. And
thank you for your help, Roger. We couldn’t have done this without
your inspiration.”

Roger gave a nod of
acknowledgement.

“
Well, ah, Gilles does
deserve a lot of credit. If he hadn’t gone along with it, I
probably would have just turned around and gone home.”

“
That’s why we keep him
around.” Chiappe exchanged a look with Gerard, who glanced quickly
at his watch.

Then they stood and engaged in a brief
round of congratulations, the chief and his men. It was all over
bar the shouting.

Chapter
Twenty-One

Another long day faded into
night

Another long day was fading into night.
Gilles closed up his office door with a sigh and a sense of real
accomplishment. For some reason, the usual dread of going home was
absent. He exited the building, almost relieved that he saw no one
he knew, and yet surely word had gone around the building about the
arrest of Eduard Babineaux and the successful resolution of another
case. It was not like he needed their acclaim.

It was all up to the courts now, and a
jury of Eduard’s peers.

The life of the city went on, and the
worst position a man could find himself in was to not have a friend
in the world. People were people, essentially, and they would do
what they would do, some for the better, and some for the worst.
They all sought their own natural level, and every single one of
them had earned their fate. He wondered if that thought was what
made him different. The truth was, that he did have one or two
friends. The thought brought a gush to his midriff. He was luckier
than most, and it was best to try and keep it in mind.

While few on the pavement dared to make
eye contact, intent upon their own business or some internal
misery, he peered into the faces, acknowledging that in some ways
he loved them all.

It was better than hating everyone, and
in some indescribable fashion he realized that he loved himself as
well. It was a big improvement, and he wondered just what had
happened to cause this change in attitude. But he was no longer
exclusively wrapped up in himself. He was thinking about other
people again, and you couldn’t argue that it wasn’t his job, for
surely it was.

He thought of Henri, who looked up to
him almost as a god, and yet didn’t let it faze him. He thought of
Andre, and LeBref, and Le Clerc, and above all, Chiappe. He thought
of Alexis and Yvonne, and Madame Fontaine, and Monsieur
Charpentier. He thought of a few others, closer to home.

The faces in the crowd of pedestrians
told a thousand stories and implied a thousand mysteries, and that
was good, for when you stopped caring life was over and you might
as well die. He walked for the sake of walking, not caring about
anything for a while.

Maintenon stuck his hand in his pocket,
and felt some coins, and his wallet bulged as it did every pay
period, at least until he got home and began paying the bills. On
the other hand, he couldn’t remember the last time he was actually
short of cash. Maybe he could loosen up a little, but the peasant
values he had been raised with died hard.

There was a cab sitting idle by the
curb. Gilles went over and tapped on the window. The driver leaned
over and rolled the window down.

“
Yes, sir?”

“
Do you know where the Ham
Bone is?”

The driver smiled.

“
Yes, sir, I do. Would you
like to go there?”

“
Yes. Would you like a
sandwich? And a beer, or maybe a good cup of coffee?” This
spontaneous impulse didn’t appear to surprise the fellow at
all.

He grinned, and gave a quick nod.
That’s what they said about cops and cabbies—that they had seen it
all, and who knows, maybe it was true.

“
Sure. Why not?” The man was
about thirty-five, and he seemed genuinely cheerful, even glowing
with a ruddy good humour and a sense of his own fortune.

It could have been worse.

His hand came up and he turned on the
meter with what appeared to be a kind of reluctance.

Maintenon settled in and closed the
door with a sigh of gratitude, and with a quick glance in the
mirror and also over his shoulder, the driver eased the car out
into the busy evening traffic. For the driver, who gave him an
appreciative glance in the mirror, perhaps liking what he saw or at
least feeling not too threatened by it, it was just another day and
another dollar, and another day closer to death, and in the
meantime, he had a living to make and there was no point in not
enjoying it as best he could.

Perhaps this was the secret of life
after all. You did the best that you could with what you had, and
when it was all done and over with, you let it go.

The End

Louis Shalako began writing for
community newspapers and industrial magazines. His stories appear
in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering
Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia,
and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full
time.

http://shalakopublishing.weebly.com