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
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
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