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Authors: Jeannette de Beauvoir
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virginal, waiting for whatever information might come my way. “Don’t trust yourself to remember anything,” he’d told me before we disconnected our phone conversation. “Everyone forgets. Write down everything.”
Holmes to Watson, over and out.
The head librarian cleared her throat. “Mademoiselle Leroux was our research librarian,” she corrected me. “As such, I did not supervise her directly, and our work did not often intersect. But she worked here, yes.”
I had no idea what information would be helpful, nor what the police would have already asked her over the weekend. “ Madame , do you know anything about what she was working on? What kinds of projects?”
She shrugged. “It is not my area, you understand, madame . But I can show you her office if you like.”
“Very much,” I said quickly. “For whom did she do this research? For students? Professors?”
“Yes, for both,” she responded, leading me down a corridor and unlocking a door at the end of it. “ Voilà . The office of Mademoiselle Leroux.” She gestured with a flourish. “I will leave you, madame . You can find me if you have any more questions.” It is Monday morning, her tone implied, and I have better things to do than talk with the directrice de publicité .
I was relieved to be alone. Better to snoop in private when one is unaccustomed to snooping, I thought, moving over to the desk, sitting down automatically behind it. It was a small, narrow office, with a grimy window that overlooked nothing much at all, and the kind of bookcases on the walls that are put up using strips of metal into which one fits the supports for shelves. They were filled with reference books, these shelves, most of them in French, in keeping with UQAM’s status as part of Québec’s primary French-speaking university system.
I sat behind the desk and tried to imagine Danielle here.
The laughing eyes must have turned serious while she worked, I thought; and there was more than enough work obviously taking place here to keep her feeling the weight of her job responsibilities. Piles of papers, folders, and books were scattered around the surface of the desk. I moved a pile and it slid noisily to the floor; behind it I saw what I hadn’t seen in my deputy’s office, a small framed picture of Richard and Danielle together, both of them laughing; it seemed to have been taken in the countryside, on a hot brilliant summer day.
That did it. I put my face in my hands and cried.
* * *
If Danielle Leroux’s office held any secrets when I arrived, it still held them when I left.
I’d dutifully taken notes, of course, copying names scrawled on folders, glancing through the contents. She had been doing historical research lately, it seemed, on behalf of two different professors; one was looking into the fur trade, the other into the history of the province’s separatist movement. The latter held my attention for a while; there was enough passion on both sides of the separatist issue to provoke violence; but this was an old argument, one that had taken place long ago over issues that were no longer even contested.
Her computer might have held more, but it was password-protected, and no one appeared to know what that password might be. “If it’s a university computer,” I asked diffidently, “surely there’s some way to override the password?”
Ah, yes, the young student at the front desk agreed. The IT department would be able to, surely. But they would not.
“Excuse me?”
“ Non, non, madame ,” she said. “It is not because of you. They are most difficult to work with, even for the smallest of problems. You would need authority before they would consent to come and do such a thing.” She shrugged. “They showed the police the password, they had the authority, I suppose.”
“Authority?” But even as I spoke the word, I knew that she was right. My own experience working within the political bureaucracy told me that the
Holmes to Watson, over and out.
The head librarian cleared her throat. “Mademoiselle Leroux was our research librarian,” she corrected me. “As such, I did not supervise her directly, and our work did not often intersect. But she worked here, yes.”
I had no idea what information would be helpful, nor what the police would have already asked her over the weekend. “ Madame , do you know anything about what she was working on? What kinds of projects?”
She shrugged. “It is not my area, you understand, madame . But I can show you her office if you like.”
“Very much,” I said quickly. “For whom did she do this research? For students? Professors?”
“Yes, for both,” she responded, leading me down a corridor and unlocking a door at the end of it. “ Voilà . The office of Mademoiselle Leroux.” She gestured with a flourish. “I will leave you, madame . You can find me if you have any more questions.” It is Monday morning, her tone implied, and I have better things to do than talk with the directrice de publicité .
I was relieved to be alone. Better to snoop in private when one is unaccustomed to snooping, I thought, moving over to the desk, sitting down automatically behind it. It was a small, narrow office, with a grimy window that overlooked nothing much at all, and the kind of bookcases on the walls that are put up using strips of metal into which one fits the supports for shelves. They were filled with reference books, these shelves, most of them in French, in keeping with UQAM’s status as part of Québec’s primary French-speaking university system.
I sat behind the desk and tried to imagine Danielle here.
The laughing eyes must have turned serious while she worked, I thought; and there was more than enough work obviously taking place here to keep her feeling the weight of her job responsibilities. Piles of papers, folders, and books were scattered around the surface of the desk. I moved a pile and it slid noisily to the floor; behind it I saw what I hadn’t seen in my deputy’s office, a small framed picture of Richard and Danielle together, both of them laughing; it seemed to have been taken in the countryside, on a hot brilliant summer day.
That did it. I put my face in my hands and cried.
* * *
If Danielle Leroux’s office held any secrets when I arrived, it still held them when I left.
I’d dutifully taken notes, of course, copying names scrawled on folders, glancing through the contents. She had been doing historical research lately, it seemed, on behalf of two different professors; one was looking into the fur trade, the other into the history of the province’s separatist movement. The latter held my attention for a while; there was enough passion on both sides of the separatist issue to provoke violence; but this was an old argument, one that had taken place long ago over issues that were no longer even contested.
Her computer might have held more, but it was password-protected, and no one appeared to know what that password might be. “If it’s a university computer,” I asked diffidently, “surely there’s some way to override the password?”
Ah, yes, the young student at the front desk agreed. The IT department would be able to, surely. But they would not.
“Excuse me?”
“ Non, non, madame ,” she said. “It is not because of you. They are most difficult to work with, even for the smallest of problems. You would need authority before they would consent to come and do such a thing.” She shrugged. “They showed the police the password, they had the authority, I suppose.”
“Authority?” But even as I spoke the word, I knew that she was right. My own experience working within the political bureaucracy told me that the
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