usual anyway. The fact that he even had
them speaks volumes.”
Guillaume believed in official
documents. Eyewitnesses were unreliable. The fact that Duval had
been found dead in his own home, with plenty of testimonial
evidence that it was indeed him, meant little to a real
professional.
Behind its dome of glass, the minute
hand of the wall clock clicked ever forward in its inexorable
fashion, reminding Maintenon that no one really ever knows just
exactly how much time they have left. Death came so unexpectedly to
people. You could never really count on reaching your natural
age—too many accidents, too much disease, and not much love in the
world when you got right down to it.
Gilles understood that one well enough.
If it wasn’t for that, there would be little need for police at
all. The pain in his jaw was just a dull background ache at this
moment in time, but it would come back with a vengeance all too
soon. There was a world of pain out there.
“ So far no one has mentioned
any military service, but they have all known him for varying
lengths of time…perhaps the brother, n’est pas?”
This was greeted by non-committal looks
from Levain and Guillaume.
“ I think the company made
military equipment during the war.” This was from Gilles. “He would
have been exempt from service. But that’s not to say that he didn’t
join up anyway, back in the heady days of the summer of
1914.”
“ Did you notice anything
else? What about his overall physical condition?” Levain kept him
on topic, as Gilles seemed preoccupied.
The doctor outlined how his subject was
about thirty-eight years old, not overweight, how he had fairly
firm muscle tone, and while there were no major ‘sporting injuries’
to report, he had led an active life, which resulted in a bony lump
on his left shin that had been there for many years. He was
tolerably well-built, but otherwise unremarkable. The man had
smoked, lightly thought Guillaume, but definitely a yes. As for
drink, again, not enough to scar the liver, but probably, yes.
There was a broken vein up in the soft flesh near one eye, very
small. His blood work, alcohol levels, nothing appeared out of the
norms, and most importantly, he had found no signs of terminal
illness, nor anything else to cause any real suffering. There were
no recent bumps, bruises, abrasions, or anything like that.
Interestingly, he had eaten a good dinner the night before his
death. Men like that never went hungry. But a suicide with an
appetite? It made for suspicion. Both men appreciated the doctor’s
use of plain language, as at this point medical terms just
complicated the process. His official write-up would be a paradigm
of clarity and use all the proper scientific terms.
Stomach contents reflected the menu
provided by Madame Fontaine for the night before, just as Gilles
had expected.
A full report would be
forthcoming.
Levain had learned to trust that look
of Maintenon’s. When he appeared to be a million miles away, then
somebody somewhere had better look out.
“ I’ve been thinking about
that make-up.” In pure impulse, Gilles stared at Guillaume, and
gave a quick and wild look at Levain. “This could all just be
make-up. Window dressing. Think about it. We owe something, a
little gratitude I might say, to our anonymous floater. Any firm
identification of the deceased relies upon those closest to him.
It’s always up to them, right?”
Interesting.
“ Then we need more on him.
Dental records, medical history, surgeries, his childhood
afflictions, everything.” Doctor Guillaume shrugged in sympathy.
“Find a record of his prints. That would settle it for me. Assuming
they match, of course.”
Gilles nodded at his
thoughts.
“ There are fingerprints in
his house.” Levain pointed out the obvious.
“ Yes, but…” Gilles
hesitated.
How should he put it?
“ Where there’s a will,
there’s a way. And we are going to need more manpower. For both of
them, actually.”
To
them speaks volumes.”
Guillaume believed in official
documents. Eyewitnesses were unreliable. The fact that Duval had
been found dead in his own home, with plenty of testimonial
evidence that it was indeed him, meant little to a real
professional.
Behind its dome of glass, the minute
hand of the wall clock clicked ever forward in its inexorable
fashion, reminding Maintenon that no one really ever knows just
exactly how much time they have left. Death came so unexpectedly to
people. You could never really count on reaching your natural
age—too many accidents, too much disease, and not much love in the
world when you got right down to it.
Gilles understood that one well enough.
If it wasn’t for that, there would be little need for police at
all. The pain in his jaw was just a dull background ache at this
moment in time, but it would come back with a vengeance all too
soon. There was a world of pain out there.
“ So far no one has mentioned
any military service, but they have all known him for varying
lengths of time…perhaps the brother, n’est pas?”
This was greeted by non-committal looks
from Levain and Guillaume.
“ I think the company made
military equipment during the war.” This was from Gilles. “He would
have been exempt from service. But that’s not to say that he didn’t
join up anyway, back in the heady days of the summer of
1914.”
“ Did you notice anything
else? What about his overall physical condition?” Levain kept him
on topic, as Gilles seemed preoccupied.
The doctor outlined how his subject was
about thirty-eight years old, not overweight, how he had fairly
firm muscle tone, and while there were no major ‘sporting injuries’
to report, he had led an active life, which resulted in a bony lump
on his left shin that had been there for many years. He was
tolerably well-built, but otherwise unremarkable. The man had
smoked, lightly thought Guillaume, but definitely a yes. As for
drink, again, not enough to scar the liver, but probably, yes.
There was a broken vein up in the soft flesh near one eye, very
small. His blood work, alcohol levels, nothing appeared out of the
norms, and most importantly, he had found no signs of terminal
illness, nor anything else to cause any real suffering. There were
no recent bumps, bruises, abrasions, or anything like that.
Interestingly, he had eaten a good dinner the night before his
death. Men like that never went hungry. But a suicide with an
appetite? It made for suspicion. Both men appreciated the doctor’s
use of plain language, as at this point medical terms just
complicated the process. His official write-up would be a paradigm
of clarity and use all the proper scientific terms.
Stomach contents reflected the menu
provided by Madame Fontaine for the night before, just as Gilles
had expected.
A full report would be
forthcoming.
Levain had learned to trust that look
of Maintenon’s. When he appeared to be a million miles away, then
somebody somewhere had better look out.
“ I’ve been thinking about
that make-up.” In pure impulse, Gilles stared at Guillaume, and
gave a quick and wild look at Levain. “This could all just be
make-up. Window dressing. Think about it. We owe something, a
little gratitude I might say, to our anonymous floater. Any firm
identification of the deceased relies upon those closest to him.
It’s always up to them, right?”
Interesting.
“ Then we need more on him.
Dental records, medical history, surgeries, his childhood
afflictions, everything.” Doctor Guillaume shrugged in sympathy.
“Find a record of his prints. That would settle it for me. Assuming
they match, of course.”
Gilles nodded at his
thoughts.
“ There are fingerprints in
his house.” Levain pointed out the obvious.
“ Yes, but…” Gilles
hesitated.
How should he put it?
“ Where there’s a will,
there’s a way. And we are going to need more manpower. For both of
them, actually.”
To
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