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mild shock and a kind of dread of
unemployment overcame her. She had never met Alain. Yvonne was a
regular in the household, of indeterminate status to Emilie, for
the maid insisted Gilles call her that. She knew her own status in
this place well enough. Only ladies and gentlemen were entitled to
a surname. She waited on Yvonne but didn’t report to her or take
her orders. She got her instructions from Madame Fontaine and
Monsieur Duval, in that order. She knew nothing of Jules
Charpentier and not much about Frederic who had flirted with her at
first until she made it clear this made her uncomfortable. They had
remained distant.
    She worked during the day unless other
arrangements had been made, in which case she needed some notice as
she had an infant and a mother-in-law, who looked after her
daughter during working hours. Her mother-in-law had her own life
to live and her own responsibilities. Emilie’s husband was employed
at a dairy, also during daylight hours. They were presently
estranged, due to his alcoholism, but she had some hopes of
eventual reconciliation. She was from a village thirty kilometres
east of the city and had moved here years ago.
    After asking her to write down her
daily routine, and account in writing as best she could for her
movements in the preceding forty-eight hours, he reassured her that
she was not a suspect and was startled at the look of sheer terror
this inspired in her pallid and rounded features. It was wise to
remember that class expectations played a role in his relationship
with people at a crime scene, and he spent an inordinate amount of
time trying to make her understand that this was all dull, drab
routine.
    In the end, he didn’t think she
entirely bought it, but he did his best.
    Gilles took down the details of her
home address. She lived with an elderly aunt and uncle in a small
flat about six kilometres away across the city. A plain girl with a
distinct black hairiness to her forearms and side-burn areas, he
had little reason to suspect any romantic attachments on the part
of Theo Duval, and she was such an innocent kind of person he
didn’t inquire further. It would only embarrass her and interfere
with future conversations.
    His interview with the driver wasn’t
very enlightening and had about the same result. In spite of their
stated reverence for their employer, perhaps even some personal
liking on his part, Frederic was terrified when he realized there
might not be much need for his services any longer.
    Although he insisted that he drove
Madame Fontaine and Alexis everywhere on their household errands,
and that there was some small possibility that Alain might employ
him if he took over the house, his heart wasn’t in it and his
attention seemed elsewhere. Gilles gravely noted that he ate lunch
in the kitchen and took his breaks there as well. His movements
could be accounted for at least, for his daily routine was a thing
of comfort and guidance to one such as Frederic. He had a wife and
two daughters, and lived in a small flat on an upper floor about
ten blocks away. Gilles knew the neighbourhood, nodding at this bit
of information.
    It was almost a relief to get rid of
the man, and yet such a familiar type to Gilles.
    Jules Charpentier had managed the local
plant for six and a half years, and was assistant manager before
that. He had started with the company at about the age of
twenty-five, and was in his early forties. Like the new arrival
Babineaux, whom Gilles had briefly met, and who was now awaiting
his own questioning, he was balding. In his case, it was simply
buzzed short and ignored. This was also a kind of vanity, realized
Gilles, the vanity of one who wants the world to know that he
simply doesn’t care. It was all business. It was a genteel
stoicism, rather than a ruthless repression of emotion.
    He seemed to know a lot about the inner
workings of the corporate side of things. The local plant was the
largest one they had, and he was naturally