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wanted her to look at
some pictures, and that it may or may not be Monsieur
Godeffroy.
    She was
expecting photos from the morgue and she sort of shivered, and yet
the two males were so reassuring, so uncertain and so gently
polite—the suspense was killing her of course.
    “ I only wish we had some real news.”
    She had
some pretty nice knees, thought Tailler.
    Emile
Tailler, seated beside her on the couch, opened up his battered
briefcase, where he had everything stacked up in a kind of order.
The envelope of photo-enlargements lay on top. The arrangement had
been thoughtful, obscuring any other documents that she might get a
glimpse of. You couldn’t be too careful, and more than anything
they didn’t want to let the cat out of the bag. It was their case,
not hers.
    She had
no right to any other information. He closed the briefcase and set
it aside. If she was completely innocent, she would be accepting
things at face value. You couldn’t be too careful
sometimes.
    He
reached into the manila envelope and pulled out the first one. He
handed it to her as Hubert studied her reaction.
    “ Where did you get this?” She looked up, startled. “From his
mother?”
    Wasn’t
Didier supposed to be an orphan…
    Didier
at about twenty years old. Straw boater cap, white shirt, black
vest, ribbon tie and a flower in the buttonhole.
    Hubert
didn’t answer directly, and sooner or later she was going to catch
on. Everything about the lady, the flat, the books on the shelf
lining the one short wall on the end and framing the archway into
the dining room, spoke of education, intelligence, and
refinement.
    This was
no ordinary housewife.
    They
tried another picture.
    “ Ah, why do you ask that?” It was lame, terribly lame. “Is
that Monsieur Godeffroy?”
    Tears welled up and rolled down her cheeks as she faltered
before speaking. He handed her another photo.
    “ God, he looks so young…” It was a university graduation
picture, found by the other Madame amongst her husband’s
effects.
    Hubert wondered why Tailler hadn’t led off with that one, but
let the boy go. This was interesting. The orphan must have been
lucky, to get a scholarship—or to somehow work his way through school,
thought Hubert.
    “ Is this your husband, Didier Godeffroy, Madame?”
    “ Oh, God. He’s dead isn’t he?”
    This was
already going badly but there were only so many approaches, so many
places to start.
    “ We’re not really sure of anything, Madame. Not just
yet.”
    Hubert
spoke up.
    “ This is all very preliminary, Madame Godeffroy. Your husband
impresses me as a very ambitious man.”
    All
those contradictions.
    She
hadn’t even questioned as to why a couple of Paris detectives would
be involved, perhaps she really was in shock. It took people
different ways, some reacted differently. The real control freaks
were barking out orders and snapping out instructions to the last;
and the weak and the soft merely folded up like a wet cigar in the
hip pocket.
    Even
through the tears, she remembered her manners. She sniffed and
gasped, nose already all stuffed up and needing a good blow. Like
almost anyone of her class, she had insisted on giving them tea,
not exactly unwelcome as it tended to settle the stomach and dull
the effects of a couple of tall mugs of cool lager.
    It was his one regret, to arrive at this house of sadness,
smelling of alcohol. Hubert accepted the error calmly enough. Life
was a learning curve, and what was a welcome break from dull
routine for the pair of them was right in the midst of somebody else’s misery.
You couldn’t help but take it seriously sometimes.
    “ Forgive us, Madame. These are all very dull, very routine
questions, and you have no doubt already heard them
before…”
    She
nodded, sniffling, as Tailler whipped out his own handkerchief.
Taking it, she immediately made a mess of it and Tailler gave him
an unreadable look.
    “ It’s just that we need to be really sure.” Tailler pulled out
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