19 November 1922, Paris
The train-ferry-train trip from London’s Victoria station to Paris’ Gare du Nord had Holmes and Russell arriving rumpled and tired on a cold and dreary Sunday morning. Russell had little more than nourishment and a hot bath on her mind as she forged ahead through the press of the disembarking crowd, until, that is, she heard Holmes call out to her. “Russell. Wait a moment. It appears we are to be waylaid. That short and frantic man there by the arrivals board, is looking for us.”
Looking back over her shoulder, Russell agrees that the little man across the terminal, perched on the pedestal of a lamp post, scanning the top of the crowd, is in all likelihood looking for them; two tall arrivals. With a heavy sigh and an awkward turnabout in the jostling crowd, Russell manoeuvres her way back to Holmes. Together the two approach the man indirectly, angling first to the side so as to allow a moment’s observation. Half under her breath Russell bemoans the fading likelihood of a Croque-Monsieur to sate her hunger or a stop at their hotel to change from their travel clothes and settle their possessions. Holmes, quicker to shed the disappointment, responds with a quiet litany of observations of the man they are slowly approaching.
“Yes, definitely waylaid. He’s with the Sūreté. Armed with a gun, Russell, left side. He knows how to use it but does not currently anticipate a need to do so.”
“Well, things are looking up already,” retorts Russell.
“He’s anxious to find us. That scrap of paper in his hand has our descriptions, but he also carries some official documents, including photographs, tucked in his belt under his suit jacket. We’re to be delivered to a crime scene, recent or possibly still active. My weapon is packed away. Yours?”
“Handbag. And my knife is in my boot. Direct to a crime scene, you think?”
“Handbags,” says Holmes wistfully. “I do wish men could carry them without drawing attention.” Followed up with a note of exasperation. “And yes, Russell. The documents.”
With a mental kick, Russell supplies the answer. “Photographs. Mycroft promised us photographs from the crime scene. The man wouldn’t have the nuisance of carrying them if he didn’t plan to show us right away. But why hurry, Wilson was killed days ago. This must be a new crime with some connection to the Wilson case. Elementary, my dear Holmes.”
“Quite. By the make of his shoes, he’s American, but his clothes suggest permanent residence here for some years. At least he’ll be agreeable enough; he has friends, even if he rarely sees them. I’d say he’s harried from all sides; a disapproving wife, disloyal dog, and a demanding superior. That’s been the general state of affairs for at least a year, but it has been exacerbated over the past three days.”
Russell takes a moment to study the man a bit more intently before replying. “Okay, I’ll bite. The respectable suit gone shabby, close cropped hair and tightly tied necktie, gnawed cuff, and 3-day old beard explain most of it. But friends?”
“Belt buckle. Not his usual style; it’s garish. His wife must detest it. And yet he wears it. He also has a gold pen in his jacket pocket and an oversized watch, both recently acquired but completely impractical on the job. Taken together, he shows sentimental attachments outside his immediate family. Gifts from friends.”
With equal parts respect and annoyance Russell asks, “Is that all?”
“No, but his diet preferences and idle pastimes don’t seem particularly pertinent at the moment. Given that he has not yet seen us, I’d add that he’s as dogged as a terrier but completely inadequate for the job. Come Russell, the game is afoot and this man needs our salvation.”
“Don’t they all?” quipped Russell. With that the two approach the man directly and make themselves known.
Seeing them, the American jumps down from his perch and eagerly approaches with outstretched hand. He’s obviously relieved to see them, gives each a hearty hand shake and then snatches Russell’s valise, as he proceeds to physically shepherd the two through the crowd toward the busy rue de Dunkerque. Confirming Holmes’ deduction, LeRocque speaks to them in an unmistakably American accent but with a subtle and unusual vernacular. “Mr. Holmes, Miss Russell, that’s how you like to be addressed, correct? I am Lieutenant Martin LeRocque, currently of the Sūreté, originally from America, like you Miss Russell, French Canadian by birth though, which gives me the right name but the wrong French, at least as far as the Parisians are concerned. An expat in disguise, if you will, as long as you’re not speaking to me.”
Not waiting for a response from his charges, LeRocque forges ahead with his barrage. “I’m afraid I can’t drop you off Miss Russell. There’s been another murder, double murder that is, and Captain LeMarc wants your Mr. Holmes at the crime scene forthwith.”
“Your Captain thinks this murder is related to the Wilson case?” asks Holmes.
“That’s the working hypothesis. Certain similarities with the crime scene is all. No other known connection. But it’s only just been reported. Too early to say one way or the other.”
Holmes and Russell exchange a look. Mycroft may be the connection, but they would need to consider carefully before revealing that. “The victims have been identified?”
“Yes. Monsieur and Madam Girard. Ah, here’s the car, just where I left it. Plenty of room for you and your possessions. Thinking you’d be knackered after your travels, I did manage some blankets and a bit of nourishment. Bread, cheese, a thermos of coffee for us, Mr. Holmes, and some wine to ease the wait for you Miss.”
LeRocque pulls open the door and stands aside to allow Russell to climb into the back seat before piling in the luggage. Russell, deciding to ignore both the dismissal from the investigation and the backseat invitation, launches into a barrage of her own. “Oh, is this the new Citroen – the B2. I’ve driven the Type A, but I understand this one has much more power. They say it can top 70 kilometres per hour, have you tried? I see the chassis is more or less the same. They’re manufactured right here, aren’t they? I wonder if we could see the factory. It uses Taylorism, you know, like Ford, and can build an astonishing number of cars in a single day.”
Holmes, with a smile curling his lips, clambers into the back seat. LeRocque, looking both astonished and deeply impressed, fails to answer Russell’s questions, but recovers himself enough to hand luggage back to Holmes, along with the documents pertaining to the Wilson investigation, and then skirts around the car to climb into the front seat. As LeRocque pulls into traffic, Holmes passes a blanket up to Russell to cover her legs along with the food basket to stave off her hunger.
He pulls a blanket across his own lap and, ignoring the hunk of bread Russell tore from the baguette for him, turns his attention to the large envelop from LeRocque. Hunching over to block the wind, he removes the photographs for himself and passes the typed police reports to Russell. Focused on the materials, Holmes and Russell pay scant attention to LeRocque’s steady flow of commentary; about the traffic, the surrounding neighbourhoods, and the best pastry at any number of shops they’d just passed, and reflexively interject the occasional acknowledgement when he pauses for breath. Russell scans the police reports looking for any detail that might interest Holmes particularly. For his part, Holmes carefully studies each image of the victims to gain a detailed impression of them and the manner of their deaths.
In less than 20 minutes, the car slows as they enter a posh residential neighbourhood; a quiet and well-manicured enclave of older stone homes, gardens and old growth trees, hidden away and seemingly immune to the surrounding urban frenzy. “There’s the house now,” remarks LeRocque needlessly as they approach a charming two-story stone house nearly hidden behind a crowded scene of police cars, an ambulance and at least 10 people milling about looking official if not industrious. LeRocque parks the car at the curb and the three climb out to enter the fray.
Noticing their arrival, a man, who Holmes quickly surmises must be Captain LeMarc, quickly approaches with a deep scowl on his face. LeRocque turns to Russell, “You can remain here in the car, Miss Russell. After I introduce Mr. Holmes to the team, I will find someone to convey you to your hotel. It’s sure to be a lengthy and tedious process.”
Seeing Russell’s hot flash of anger, Holmes quickly interjects. “LeRocque, we, both of us, are here to investigate this matter. I can assure you that although a woman, Russell is a supremely capable detective in her own right. She is my partner in this investigation and will prove herself invaluable if treated accordingly.”
By now, Captain LeMarc has joined their threesome. Switching to impeccable French, Holmes greets the Captain. “Captain LeMarc, allow me to introduce myself, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, and my partner Miss Russell. I see you’ve kept your men waiting pending our arrival. We’ll not tax your patience any further – please escort us to the scene.”
“But Mr. Holmes,” interjects LeMarc, “the bodies. Nothing’s been disturbed.”
“Excellent, as it should be.”
“But your wife, sir!” exclaims the Captain.
“Partner, Captain. Perhaps you did not understand me? Russell is my partner in this matter. She is not new to murder and will not be undone by the sight of a corpse. And perhaps more to the point, she will not be deterred when there is a murderer on the loose and a case to be solved. If you want to prevent the next, treat her as my equal and hide nothing from her.”
LeMarc looks between Russell and Holmes in disbelief, and then with a sneer, “If English detectives require their wives by their sides, then by all means. My men have been waiting long enough, Mr. Holmes. Fifteen minutes are my orders. A minute more and I’ll arrest the both of you for obstructing an investigation. LeRocque! Be sure they find their way and then get them out of here!”
Not deigning to acknowledge LeMarc’s slur with a reaction, Holmes and Russell proceed toward the house with LeRocque a few steps behind. Quietly so that only Holmes can hear, “Thank you Holmes, but I am able to speak for myself.” To which Holmes responds, “Yes, of course, or toss him over your shoulder by way of demonstration, I daresay. I simply thought lending my endorsement would speed things along.”
Approaching the house now, Holmes and Russell turn their full attention to the task at hand. The front door; large, wide, heavy and tightly fitting, shows no sign of forced entry. The door opens into a moderately sized foyer with staircase and closet underneath to the right and a centre passage leading straight back through the length of the house. To the left is a sitting area, demarcated by the back of a sofa facing a fireplace, flanked by windows and floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with leather bound volumes. The room is formal and obviously seldom used, but not uncomfortable. Continuing further into the house, Holmes and Russell enter directly into the dining room, also orderly and seldom used. To the left is a doorway into a living room with comfortable furnishings, family portraits, and a radio, clearly where the residents spend most of their leisure time.
It is here where the victims lie murdered, securely bound at the ankles and wrists and further tethered to a large sofa facing the doorway at the opposite side of the room. The hardwood floors are worn from long use, but otherwise unremarkable, allowing Holmes and Russell to approach the bodies directly. While they conduct their examination, Russell updates Holmes on the relevant details from the police reports of the other victims.
“The prior investigation led to the speculation of two killers. They found two different foot prints on the scene; one set quite large with worn treads, as from an old work boot. The other set smaller, smoother, slight heel, more of a man’s dress shoe.”
“Here too, it would have to have been at least two. The victims cooperated with their captor; the knots are neat and tight, he had plenty of time to secure the victims.”
“The manner of restraint is entirely consistent with the previous victims, Holmes, including the additional tether. Seems redundant, overcautious, for professional killers.”
“Yes, that is noteworthy. Not professional, or maybe they had good reason for caution. The bindings, packaging twine?”
“Yes, identical to the others. Appears they brought it with them.”
“We should get a sample. The fibres may reveal their origin. And the shots to the head?”
“Yes, nearly identical. Fired at point blank range. Ballistics showed the Wilsons were both killed by the same gun. It matches in calibre to the weapon used here. The only point of difference I see is that the prior victims were shot from the right, these from the left.”
“The woman was shot before the man, but not by long. You can see he’s slumped overtop the blood spray from the first shot. But the blood from her wound pooled against his shoulder. He couldn’t have been killed more than a few seconds after her. The photos from the Wilson crime scene reveal the same thing – rapid sequential execution. These don’t appear to have been assaulted. The Wilsons?”
“The same. Other than the wounds around their bindings and the fatal shot, no other injuries.” replies Russell.
“Some other coercion then,” comments Holmes to himself.
“How do you know there was coercion? Maybe they just wanted them dead” interjects LeRocque.
“Ah, Lieutenant, lurking in the hallway. Do be quiet,” says Holmes without looking up.
“Holmes!”
Holmes looks up at Russell, who glares at him and nods her head towards LeRocque, silently reprimanding him for his rude behaviour. Holmes rolls his eyes and Russell continues to stare at him. Holmes grimaces at Russell and then gives his own nod toward LeRocque, silently communicating that she can explain it to him if she must.
Russell leaves Holmes with the bodies and proceeds back across the room to speak quietly with LeRocque. “Lieutenant, it’s quite certain that the killers wanted something from their victims. Why bother to tie them up if your sole purpose is to kill them? The injuries at their bindings suggests they struggled.”
“Well obviously they were trying to save themselves,” says LeRocque.
Immensely irritated by the conversation behind him, Holmes interjects, “Wrong. If you don’t want to die, and have been made helpless, then the last thing you will do is struggle. You will stay very, very still and try not to upset your captor. Unless your captor has left – but then you’re not so desperate. Or your captor gives you another reason to struggle, say torturing your spouse as an incentive for you to comply. But there is no sign of it on them. The execution, one right after the other, was just that. It wasn’t used as a coercion.”
“So, the question is, what coercion did the captors use?” explains Russell gently. “Knowing what caused the victims to struggle could shed light on why they were killed.”
Russell turns back towards the room. She scans the area in front of the victims, thinking it’s odd there is no coffee table in front of the couch, just a small rectangular rug. Taking a closer look, she calls out, “Holmes, this rug. It’s been moved. It’s not aligned with the fading on the floor.”
Holmes steps over, “Excellent, Russell”. He slowly pulls back the corner until, about a foot back from the edge, he sees a mark. Touching the very edge and sniffing he looks up intently back to where the bodies lie. “Damp. Urine. Blood. Something…”
“LeRocque – the dog, where’s the dog?”
“What dog?”
“Hairs on the sofa. They have a dog – medium sized, a mongrel. See if you can find the dog.”
“Who cares about the dog?” says LeRocque incredulously.
“They did. Quite a lot. Absurd, people’s love for their pets. But this pair, they loved their dog. Let it sleep on the couch, gnaw on the furniture. And see how they struggled, their injuries are quite severe. They’ve bled at their bindings. This ones’ thumb is broken, and his wrist is dislocated. And there, the scuff marks on the floor. They were desperate. Perhaps their struggle was to protect their pet. Find me that damned dog!”
Seeing that Holmes is losing his temper and that LeRocque is failing to understand, Russell takes it upon herself to free up Holmes to continue his examination undisturbed. “Come on, Lieutenant. There’s an injured dog to find. His method may seem madness, but there is logic there and it’s best to assist him.” She takes LeRocque by the arm and proceeds out through the hallway, kitchen and then finally out the back door into the garden.
The yard itself is charming. Enclosed by hedgerows on two sides, with a tall fence along the third, it is private and cosy. To the left is a large garden, set where it can take advantage of full sun for most of the day. On the right, not far from the house is a patio area, sure to be comfortably shaded in the summer by the large maple further back along towards the corner. In between, at the back of the yard is a quaint little garden shed, with a dog house to the left and rubbish bins to the right, close to a gate leading to a car park and back alleyway.
Russell and LeRocque walk into the yard to find a chain that extended from the tree as far as the middle of the yard. On the chain is an empty collar, buckle undone but otherwise unremarkable. Continuing back to the shed, LeRocque finds the dog house empty. Russell continues to the other side of the shed to peer into the rubbish bins. The first was empty, but the second appears quite full, the lid barely fitting overtop. Lifting the lid, Russell calls for LeRocque.
“Well, I’ve found the dog. It’s dead. Appears its neck’s been broken. Could you lift it out, so we can see if it was wounded? There was blood on the floor.”
LeRocque obliges, scooping the dog into his arms. In the process, he accidentally catches something else in his hand, pulling the bin over as he lifts the dog up and out to set on the ground behind him. Cursing under his breath, then apologizing to Russell, he proceeds to check for other injuries on the dog. “There’s nothing here, no wounds that I can see.” Hearing no response from Russell, he looks over his shoulder to see Russell crouched down over the pile of trash. He then hears a sharp intake and a low, keening moan, almost a growl. Quickly he rises to look over her shoulder. In his shock, he manages only “Oh my God” before running back toward the house.
Holmes hears the door slam and the pounding footsteps of LeRocque, giving him just enough time to stand and bar the door before the fool comes pounding in and over the evidence. “LeRocque, control yourself. I suppose you found the dog.”
LeRocque chokes out, “Yes. No. Your wife. It wasn’t the dog.” Holmes looks hard at the man, taking in his stricken expression.
“Russell?” demands Holmes, to which he gets little more than a vague wave of the arm and a wide, blank stare. Pushing the man down hard on his shoulders he commands, “Sit”, and then barrels out of the house into the back yard. He sees her there, coat off, kneeling to lean over a mound on the ground. Holmes moves quickly across the yard in long strides, arriving at Russell’s side unnoticed. Quickly he scans the object holding Russell’s attention; a child, female, 6 years old, maybe 7, dead. She is bloody, dirty, naked but for an undershirt, and appears to have been sexually assaulted. Russell, having placed her coat on the ground and gathered the poor broken bundle onto it, is now using her warm hands to gently wipe the cold, sticky blood and dirt from her as she tucks the coat around her.
Holmes acts quickly. With a sharp bark he says, “Russell”. Russell starts, whipping her head around to look up at him. Not wasting a moment, Holmes squats part way between Russell and the child, pivoting his body to face Russell and block her view. Looking into her eyes, he firmly grasps her wrists, presses her palms together and then, to free up his left hand, wraps the fingers of his right hand around both her wrists to hold them firmly in place. Breaking his gaze, he uses his free hand to lift and turn Russell so that her back is to the child and to him. Maintaining the hold on her wrists, with his arm wrapped across her body, he presses against her to slowly move toward the house.
Realizing that Holmes is moving her away from the child, she begins to struggle against his firm grip. Holmes speaks directly into her ear, “She can’t feel it, Russ. She can’t feel the cold. Her suffering is over.” Russell struggles a moment more and then goes limp, emitting a low, deep, groan. After a short pause, Holmes continues to press her into motion.
LeRocque just now appears in the doorway. Before he can take a single step into the yard Holmes calls out harshly. “Stay where you are. We need to secure the area. Be absolutely sure no-one enters the yard until I’ve completed my examination. Alert the team there is another body but do not let anyone approach until I say so.”
Russell, hearing Holmes’ commands, begins again to struggle against him. Holmes refuses to loosen his grip even as Russell’s struggle becomes more urgent. In frustration, she hisses “Let me go, I’m going to be sick.” Instead of releasing her, he practically lifts her to take three quick strides to the patio. Feeling her tense for the retch, he braces his body, taking a wide stance and bending his knee to help support her weight as she doubles over to vomit on the paving stones, never releasing his grip.
They stay like this, the one folded over the other, for a minute while Russell’s heaving subsides. She spits once, twice and tries, unsuccessfully to lift her hands to her face to wipe her mouth and the hair from her eyes. Slowly Holmes raises both of them back into an upright position, clamped tight, moving as one body. She takes a few calming breaths, and then in a slow, steady voice, she says, “Holmes, you can unhand me now.”
Holmes, standing behind her, his head at her shoulder, quietly responds, “I can’t, Russell. Your hands. They’ve touched the body. We need to take samples.”
With horror, Russell realizes what she’s done. She disturbed the scene of a crime. Her useless ministrations wiped away the evidence. With a rush, the words come spilling out of her. “Oh my God, Holmes, what have I done? We, we found the dog in the bin. It was dead but there was no blood. It wasn’t the dog. The bin had spilled over and I saw a scrap of cloth, it looked blood stained. I unwrapped it to find… to find. Oh god, Holmes. Dead. Tortured. Raped.”
Russell shudders, takes a few deep breaths. “Holmes, I touched her. There was blood and other, you know… cold, sticky, and things, fibres stuck to her. I tried to wipe away… I wanted to help her. Holmes, I am so sorry. I thought I was ready.”
Whispering quiet shushing sounds into her ear, Holmes tries to calm her. “Russell, you were as ready as anyone can be, which is not at all for something so heinous. Quiet now. The evidence is not lost. We can take samples from your hands and you can tell me exactly what you saw.”
Maintaining their upright position, eyes forward, Russell speaks to the wall of the yard as if to the wall of a confessional. “Oh Holmes, I’ve failed you.”
“No, Russ. I. It was my mistake. I should have realized – only something truly horrific could have inspired such drastic measures from our victims; they would have ripped off their own hands to come to that child’s aid. If there was failure here, it was mine.”
With Russell still pressed against him, his arms folded around her, Holmes slowly releases Russell’s hands, brushes her hair away from her face and wipes her mouth with the back of his hand. The two slowly take a step apart and turn back toward the yard, house and LeRocque, who is standing in the doorway, barricading anyone from coming out. Holmes, his voice firm and efficient as he takes command of the situation, calls to the Lieutenant. “LeRocque, my wife, take her to the team for samples. I want soil, fibres, even the blood for typing. Anything on her hands could be of importance. They’ll need her finger prints too, for comparison. Afterward, she’ll need a car or someone to take her.”
Russell, her hands held out in front of her, doesn’t budge. “Holmes.”
Holmes’ eyes have already started scanning the yard while he continues. “Russell, you’ll need a new coat, I’m afraid. I’m sure one of these people can advise you of a shop near the hotel to find one.”
Again, Russell stands her ground, lengthening to her full height, shoulders back, chin forward. “Holmes.”
Holmes’ attention is on the scene before him, imagining how events must have unfolded. He says distractedly, “We can go over what you saw at the hotel tonight, Russ, once you’ve had a chance to recover.”
“Holmes.” A pause, and then quietly but clearly, “I’ll not be dismissed.”
With that, Holmes turns sharply to Russell, his attention now fully back on her. He takes in her defiant stance and looks directly in her eyes. He sees her humiliation and her determination.
“Russell, there’s no shame here. You’ve nothing to prove to me.”
Their eyes still locked, Holmes can see the desperation in her eyes as she says, “Holmes. I can help.”
After a considering pause, “You’re quite right.” Nudging Russell lightly, they move across the patio towards the house and the waiting Lieutenant. “LeRocque. This child didn’t belong here – no children lived in this house and from her hands, she’s not a serving girl. Someone must be missing her.” Turning to his wife, “Russell, LeRocque can determine whether anything has been learned from the neighbours while your hands are being sampled. It’s unlikely there were witnesses, LeRocque, but do check to be sure procedure has been followed. Russell, you had a better look at her than LeRocque. Once you have your hands back, you two can go to the police station to search any reports of missing children. I’ll complete my study of the scene inside and out and contact Mycroft. We’ll meet back at the hotel.”
“I could be useful to you here, Holmes. Another pair of eyes.”
“No, Russell. If we’re to understand this case, it’s imperative the child be identified. We must know whether the assault on her was purely for effect or if she’s central to this crime? While you two learn what you can about the child, I’ll learn what I can from here and follow any leads from Mycroft.” Holmes turns to LeRocque, “Lieutenant, I advise you to follow Russell’s lead. Failure to do so will only hinder this investigation with potentially tragic consequence. And LeRocque, watch her back. We don’t know what we’re dealing with here.” With that he proceeds toward the back of the yard, calling without looking back, “Russell, start with a coat.”
Russell and LeRocque do as they’re told. With an agreement to reconnoitre within 30 minutes, Russell submits her hands to examination while LeRocque proceeds to gather whatever information was gleaned from neighbours. Russell watches carefully as the technician takes samples, giving occasional instruction to ensure every possible bit of evidence is taken. Otherwise almost no words pass between Russell and any of the officials at the scene. She can’t help but wonder if they have nothing to say to someone who would disturb the evidence so egregiously. Coupled with her guilt, she feels so empty, body and soul. And hungry, not for food, the very thought turns her stomach, but hungry for understanding. The impossibility of what she saw, that someone could perpetrate such evil, defies comprehension. Intellectually she’s not naive, she has read of such crimes, but she cannot resolve what she knows of herself, what it is to be human, and that kind of depravity.
As the technician completes his work, Russell wrangles her thoughts and feelings into a box for later and concentrates on breathing slowly and deeply to gather her strength for the coming hours. Before long LeRocque returns with the news that few neighbours were home and none had any information to offer. The two head immediately to the car for the trip to 36 Quai des Orfevres, the headquarters for the criminal investigation arm of the Judicial Police, located in the heart of the city on Ile de la Cite.
As soon as they are seated in the car, LeRocque launches right back into his voluble recitation about, as far as Russell can tell, anything that happens to occur to him. She imagines Holmes would make a game of guessing the next topic of conversation simply by noting what happens to capture his notice. The current train of thought follows from all the construction impeding their way. From there it progressed quickly to a history lesson about the Thiers Wall, a now obsolete fortification that was built 60 years prior to surrounded the city, but that is being demolished with plans to replace it with desperately needed low income housing. Which then brought him to other government efforts at post war recovery, such as establishing crèches, day care centres, in response to the high percentage of women in the workforce.
Russell, shivering under the traveling blanket, realizes she had better redirect his thoughts to her more immediate requirements. She manages to interrupt him long enough to comment that he had missed his calling as tour guide and enquires whether his vast knowledge included a shop where she could procure a coat. He quickly warms to this new topic; clothiers, fashion and where his wife prefers to shop, but also, to Russell’s relief, stops along the curb outside a storefront displaying outdoor garments. While LeRocque remains outside, leaning against the car to smoke a cigarette, Russell darts into the warmth of the shop.
In less than ten minutes Russell is back at the car, clothed in a high quality if not stylish dark grey woollen coat, long enough for her stature and with numerous pockets, including an interior one in which to conceal her firearm. LeRocque, onto his second cigarette by now, throws it to the ground to snuff it out under his foot, as they quickly climb back into the car and ease into the street crowded with people, bicycles, cars, electric tramways, and omnibuses. Inspired no doubt by the busy street, LeRocque launches into a commentary about the STCRP, the company in charge of Parisian surface transport, the future of trams versus motorbuses, and his first experience of a tri-colour traffic light, all the while moving swiftly through the mid-morning traffic.
As they cross the Seine via the Pont Neuf onto the Ile de la Cite, Russell marvels at how thoroughly removed she is from that horrible discovery just an hour previously. In that short time, she has acquired not only a new coat and a vast wealth of random knowledge, but also regained her equanimity. She is accustomed to relying on Holmes; his pillar like stature and strength, his unflinching certainty, and his carefully doled out words of wisdom, to centre and support her. But it turns out that short, talkative, personable LeRocque was just what she needed to steady herself, find her core and regain her bearings. He seems to her remarkably non-judgmental, willing to accept her and her role in this case despite her earlier show of weakness. That small act of kindness, his acceptance, has allowed her to accept herself, if not fully forgive, and move on to the task at hand. She makes a mental note to pay attention to this man LeRocque, there may be more depth to him than first impressions would suggest.
The task before them was as imposing as the building itself. The 36 is immense and formidable. Four stories with a mansard-style roof, it seems even taller as it sits monolith-like above the Seine. LeRocque parked the car and the two passed on foot through a dark tunnel into the central courtyard, entering the building and climbing the steps to the criminal investigations department. Tucked in a back corner, Russell and LeRocque pore over reports of missing children for over three hours but find none that resemble the murdered child.
LeRocque, leaning back, looking straight up at the ceiling and running his hands through his hair, says with quiet defeat, “It’s a dead-end, Miss Russell. None of these lost souls fit that poor child we saw.” After a pause he continues as if to himself, “I’m half grateful.”
Russell is stilled by that simple revelation, once again feeling that there is a sensitivity to this man well hidden behind his garrulous manner. He looks back down to the papers on the desk, starts to straighten them and glances over to Russell. He’s startled to see her staring at him, questioningly. Looking down again, “Sorry, foolish thing to say.” A pause and then an explanation. “Knowing the name, it makes it real, her real, the family, their loss. It makes it, the horror, all the more difficult to bear.” He looks down and away for a moment, shaking his head, surprised at himself perhaps, for revealing something so true.
Russell prompts him to continue. “Half grateful?”
LeRocque returns his gaze to her for a moment, thoughtful. “You don’t miss much, do you, Miss Russell? Yes, just half grateful. It’s a survival skill, you know, from the war I suppose, barricading the senses, not wanting to know too much. But its usefulness is limited; enough to get you through in the moment, maybe, but not enough to move you forward.”
“You were a soldier, Mr. LeRocque, here in France?”
“What? Oh. No, not as such. I was an ambulance driver with the Red Cross, to the north and east of here; Picardie, Champagne. It was enough though, what I saw. How people cope with it, the violence and fear and deprivation and loss. And not just the soldiers, you know. Everyone. Just trying to survive. The ones who grow cold, turn a blind eye, they lose their compassion, their humanity. They lose the point of it. They don’t really survive at all, do they?”
He looks up at Russell, the expectation of an answer in his face, before he catches himself. Chagrined by speaking so earnestly and openly, he shakes his head. “Sorry, being foolish again. That girl, she’s thrown me for a bit of a loop, she has.” Getting no comment from Russell, he skips back to her earlier question. “So yes, half grateful. The other half wants to know her name, everything about her, how she came to be there, whatever it takes to solve this crime. I’ll not have her death go unpunished. It’s the most I can do for her but it’s the least I can do for the next one.”
Russell gives him a long, pensive look “Not foolish, Mr. LeRocque, Martin, if I may call you that. Wise. You have reminded me that compassion is our strength, not our weakness, and for that, I am grateful. Thank you. And please, call me Mary. You know, you remind me of my husband.”
LeRocque looks at her blankly for a moment, clearly at a rare loss for words. But then with a smile, “Mary, then. And please, Martin suits me just fine.” Letting the moment pass undisturbed, Russell removes her glasses and wearily rubs her eyes with her fists. In an effort to turn their attention back to the task at hand she comments, “Surely a missing child wouldn’t go unnoticed for long.”
“It’s possible it just hasn’t been reported yet. A child left alone during the workday, or at a crèche and assumed to be under someone else’s care. It may not be known she’s missing.”
“If that’s the case, it’s just a waiting game and I’d rather not sit idle and trust to that if another explanation is possible. What if she’s been missing for a while but it hasn’t been reported?”
“You mean, someone chose not to report it? It’s certainly possible. Things may be looking up lately but there are still plenty unable to manage a child; the aftermath, you know, mental illness, poverty, addiction. To them a child gone missing is one less burden. Those children aren’t so much found as caught. That could take days, weeks, maybe never. And it doesn’t help us here. We have the child and we know she wasn’t found in time.”
“Or maybe it’s not been reported because they can’t, because they’ve been captured, or killed. What about missing adults or recent deaths or homicides.”
“Plenty of missing people from the war of course, but records have been improving. If an adult were reported missing we’d know who they were and probably whether a child was involved. But deaths, plenty start unidentified. We’d know where they were found or who found them and start our investigation from there.”
“A trip to the morgue then?” says Russell.
“Followed by a bite of food, don’t you think? I’m hungry but you must be famished. There’s a café around the corner from the morgue – they have an excellent quiche Loraine, made with the best gruyere to be had in the city, and good, extra strong coffee.”
“You are quite the connoisseur of Paris’ comestibles, Martin. A most commendable quality. Holmes finds low level starvation keeps his mind keen and focused. I however find a hearty stew most effective. Please, lead the way.”