On the Ball

Monsieur and Madame Joubert were a well-to-do middle-class couple. The decor in their appartement, and its location in Neuilly-sur-Seine, indicated that they had good taste and an income to match. My unexpected visit had shattered their bourgeois lives.

Their anxiety began when I'd arrived. They had filed a simple missing person's report with le Bureau de la Justice Magique. This was brave of them, as a visit from the Gendarmerie Magique would doubtless cause consternation amongst their little community. To their horror, instead of a Gendarme Magique, they found themselves dealing with someone from the Bureau des Aurors. They certainly were not the sort of people who were visited by an Auror.

Their story should have been simple. The Jouberts were worried parents. Their daughter, Éloïse, had left home the previous evening. She had Apparated across Paris to visit her friend Anaïse, or so she'd told them. At noon—when she still hadn't returned home—the Jouberts had contacted Anaïse, and discovered that their daughter had lied to them.

'So unlike her.' Mme. Joubert murmured. Never having met Éloïse, I had no way of knowing whether the comment was accurate, or mere parental naïvety.

I checked their daughter's bedroom and found the walls plastered with posters of the murder victim—Tommy Harris—whose details had been sent through to our office from London. When I returned to their immaculate lounge, my worry must have been visible on my face. I watched as understandable concern for their daughter soared above clouds of anxiety to reach the nausea-inducing heights of fear. It was difficult for me to remain dispassionate; I could see a nice and normal couple caught up in a nightmare of worry.

They asked me several times, but I could not tell them why an Auror was investigating a simple missing person's report. My evasiveness was unavoidable. I didn't know anything. Unfortunately, my lack of answers lifted them to an even higher state of dread. They thought worried that their daughter was dead, but they didn't dare ask.

'I don't know where she is,' I told them. 'Or if she is safe. But we will try to find her for you. Do you have a photograph?'

Mme. Joubert hurried off to find one. Her husband watched me in unblinking silence until she returned. The snapshot showed a pale and pretty little ingénue whose black hair was cut into a bob.

It then that the urgent message arrived, saving me from their questioning. Excusing myself from their company, I assured them that there was probably nothing to worry about. Having read the message, I didn't believe my own words, but what else could I say?

On leaving the Jouberts, I Apparated to the cimetière de Montmartre. A quiet location, it was within easy walking distance to the crime scene and was therefore an obvious choice for me. After making my way through the gravestones and stepping out onto Rue Caulaincourt, I lit a cigarette. I needed something to suppress the increasing sense of dread broiling in my heart.

I rechecked the message on my Mirrorphone. My destination was the Allée du Midi, a narrow, cobbled lane within the tangled network of streets between the cemetery and the Basilique du Sacré Cœur de Montmartre. The alley wasn't far from the cemetery, and it proved very easy to find; the entrance was partially blocked by police cars.

A small white Citroën in the blue stripe livery of the Police Municipale was moving out from the entrance. The much larger Renault of the Police Nationale, its sirens still blaring importantly, was attempting to force its way past.

As I strolled up the hill, it was obvious that I was already walking into an argument. This was a case for the Police Nationale and they would, no doubt, be flexing their muscles. I watched as the Citroën reversed back into the entrance in order to, once again, block the road.

Two men climbed out from the Citroën. One was barely out of his teens; the other's teenage years could only be a distant memory to him. The youngster was lean and, from the outside, rather attractive. Inside, however, I could sense that he was a seething mess of bigotry and misogyny. He was tense, and boiling with indignation. The older man, the driver, was around fifty. Short and stout, he reminded me a little of Papa, and not only from the outside.

Both men wore dark blue blouson jackets and baseball caps, and both items of clothing bore the legend Police Municipale in large letters. I continued up the hill, quickening my pace and striding determinedly towards them. As I approached, they took a long, assessing look at me. I was only a couple of metres away from their car when the younger man acted. He stepped forward and firmly raised his hand.

'Sorry, mademoiselle, we are Police Municipale; this road is closed. There has been a murder,' he told me. He had the strutting self-importance of a small-minded man with a large ego.

I considered sarcasm. Both men were in uniform, and they were standing next to a Police Municipale car, yet the young fool felt the need to formally identify himself as he attempted to impose his will on me.

'She has eyes, Claude, very pretty blue eyes,' the older man said.

The bemused tolerance in his voice was not directed me, but towards his bumptious young companion. A glance at his epaulettes showed me that the older man was a Gardien Principal, and the more senior of the two.

'I think we may assume she knows who we are! And yet still she approaches us,' His firm words were a relatively gentle rebuke to Claude. He then turned to me and smiled. 'Can we help you, mademoiselle?' he asked politely.

I sucked in a final lung-full of smoke, dropped the still smouldering remains of my Gitanes onto the pavement, and ground it out with the toe of my Christian Louboutin's. After dismissively blowing the smoke towards the younger man, I turned to speak to his companion.

'It seems your young friend is new to the job, Gardien Principal,' I told the stout little man. 'I have good news; I am here to help you. Perhaps I can make your day a most memorable one.'

The younger man stared at me, unsure what to think, but his older and more experienced colleague remained warily professional. I attempted to ingratiate myself with the Gardien Principal by offering him the smile that melts many men's hearts. He merely acknowledged it politely. I tried again.

'I watched the Police Nationale chase you from your position, Gardien Principal. No doubt they told you that this is a job for the big boys,' I said.

I could see that the younger man was beginning to lose his temper, and I knew I'd been right to direct my comments to his companion. I carefully opened my jacket and pulled out my wallet.

'I am with the Direction centrale du Renseignement intérieur,' I told him., As I flippeding open the wallet, I flicked it from my Bureau des Aurors carte d'identité and showed himto the Muggle-s friendly version. 'I am here to chase the Police Nationale from the crime scene. Would you like me to tell them that they are wrong, and this is, in fact, a job for the little girls?'

The older man laughed, looked down at the card, and looked back up in surprise. 'Never have I seen so chic an officer of the DCRI,' he told me.

'Thank you,' I said.

He reached forwards, and I allowed him to take the wallet from me. I watched as he scrutinised it with understandable suspicion. While the Gardien Principal carefully examined my credentials, his colleague was carnally examining my figure. I ignored him and simply waited for the older man. When he finally closed the wallet, I held out my hand.

'Your credentials are in order, mademoiselle,' he told me as he handed me my wallet.

'Thank you. A few questions, if I may, Gardien Principal,' I said. 'The radio report, the reason for my presence, said that someone had found half of a body in a rented room, is this correct?'

The portly little man nodded.

'And it was the top half?'

He nodded again. 'Claude here lost his lunch,' he said cheerfully. 'And one as beautiful as you should not see such things.'

'It is my duty to France to see such things,' I told him. 'But thank you for your concern, and for the compliment. If Claude saw the corpse, then I assume that you did, too? You were first on the scene?'

'We were,' he told me. 'The body was discovered, and the alarm was raised, by the owner of the appartement. She found the remains when she went in to clean the place. She ran outside and flagged us down. It was simply coincidence. We had been dealing with a parking dispute in the neighbourhood. I verified the woman's story, and called for the Nationale. Alas, they were not grateful.'

He gestured over his shoulder, and I looked down the cobbled street. The road was little wider than a car, and it was flanked by two narrow granite-flagged footways. The Allée du Midi was a terrace of three, four, and five story appartements. The Police Nationale Renault I'd seen entering the alley had joined two similar vehicles outside a grey-painted five-storey property.

I pulled out my Mirrorphone and flicked it onto the image the British Auror Service had sent to the Bureau des Aurors. 'Was this the man?' I asked, showing the Gardien Principal the mirror.

He looked closely at the image.

'I believe so,' he said. 'What do you think, Claude?'

The younger man walked around the car and looked.

'Yes,' Claude told me. He suddenly turned very pale. 'That's him.'

'The woman who found the body, do you know her name?' I asked the Gardien Principal.

'Madame Thibault,' he told me promptly. 'She lives on the ground floor, below the appartements. She rents them out, usually to foreign tourists. But, before the Nationale arrived, she told me that the room had been taken by a young Parisienne. She told us that this woman had an assignation,' he shrugged. 'It may be true. Perhaps she was waiting for her lover, and this is a crime of passion.'

'Thank you both. I will commend you to my superiors,' I said.

I looked along the alley to the cluster of cars. There was no ambulance, not yet. I smiled at the portly little man.

'I am sure that the Police Nationale have told you to let no one through, but please may I pass, Gardien Principal? I do not wish to pull rank on you. I want to save that pleasure for the Police Nationale.'

The man chuckled. 'You are DCRI, and I am not a fool,' he said. He looked along the Allée du Midi, to where two young men wearing the uniform calots and bomber jackets of the Police Nationale were standing and watching us. 'Will you need any assistance?'

'No, thank you. I can deal with them,' I told him. 'They young. And they are only men.'

He chuckled again, stepped aside, and allowed me to pass. As I walked down the alley, I wondered whether to inform London, or to wait. Should I take the two officers at their word, or confirm the identity of the corpse with my own eyes. I turned back to the Gardien Principal. Catching his eyes, I drew my hand across my stomach from hip to hip, indicating the line where the British half of the corpse had been sliced in two. My new friend nodded.

The Municipale officers had both identified the victim from the photograph and even if they hadn't, what were the chances of the bottom half of a body being found in London and twelve hours later the top half of a different body—each guillotined in half at the navel—being found in Paris? I asked myself. Almost none, I decided. I pulled out my mirrorphone and looked down into it.

'Bureau des Aurors,' I said.

'Bureau des Aurors,' was the instant reply.

'Contact the Auror Service in London,' I said. 'It seems very likely that we have the other half of their puzzle. Also, can someone ensure that no one from the Police Nationale des Moldus contact Interpol. I believe it would be as well if the British Muggle Police know nothing of this discovery. It will merely complicate matters on both sides of la Manche.'

When I looked up from my Mirrorphone, two Police Nationale officers were almost upon me. From their epaulettes, I could tell that both were Gardien de la paix. I tried to remember my training regarding the Police Nationale. We were in the 18th Arrondissement, and there were, so far as I could tell, no unmarked cars at the scene. I was confident that I knew which police Division I was in, and it seemed that, as yet, there was no one on scene from la Brigade criminelle.

'You are from the second Division de police judiciaire,' I announced. 'Have you, or your superiors, contacted "la Crim" yet? If you have no't, don't. I am DCRI! I am now in control of this crime scene.'

'You?' the older of the two asked in disbelief. 'I may have to teach you some manners, little girl.'

'I am DCRI,' I told them, holding out my carte d'identité. 'I have not yet seen the body, and I already know more about this crime than you! Your victim is an Englishman, and the British already know this. They will be here soon. I want to speak to whoever is in charge here, and I want to do it now.' The older of the two officers sneered dismissively; his companion merely grinned. Being polite had not worked, so I turned on my inner-Veela.

'I said now!' I ordered.

I gave them the briefest of glimpses of my sharp beak and scaly wings. It was enough.

The expression on the face of the younger of the two was one of abject fear. He immediately turned and ran off to do my bidding. Behind me, I heard my new friend the Gardien Principal laugh. The other man stared at me.

'If you do not obey me, you will be hearing from your superiors,' I told him. 'I want everyone cleared from the building, and I want to speak to the woman who found the body, Madame Thibault.'

Although she had only three rooms to rent in her own house, Madame Thibault insisted on being addressed as "concierge". Outwardly she was old, frail, and a little deaf. The Police Nationale Lieutenant, who was the highest ranked officer at the scene, had assumed that her deafness and decrepitude equated to feeble-mindedness.

It was obvious to me that, in fact, she was guillotine sharp and as unstoppable as the Seine. Unfortunately, she was also extremely wary of pretty young mademoiselles. Because of her attitude, and that of the insensitive Lieutenant, I had to tread carefully. I took the easy option, and began our conversation by loudly denigrating all men, Lieutenants of the Police Nationale in particular.

It wasn't too long before we were on first name terms and sipping café like old friends. I waited patiently, allowing my new friend Agnès Thibauld to tell me about her late husband and widely scattered children and grandchildren before asking about the girl who had rented the room. When Agnès finally started talking, there was no stopping her.

'A nice girl,' Agnès told me, 'not as tall as you are and, although she was chic, she was not as chic as you. She was polite and pleasant. I cannot believe that she would do such a thing. But, even if she were so wicked, I cannot conceive of any way she could do such a thing. Where is the rest of him? I will have nightmares for weeks!'

I commiserated with her, and then asked who the girl was and how she had paid for the room.

Agnès leaned forward as she imparted a confidence. 'She paid cash, and gave me one hundred Euros more than I'd asked for.' The elderly lady looked around the room before continuing. 'It was as though she never handled money, Gabrielle. She seemed to have no concept of the value of the cash she carried. I gave it back to her, of course, and warned her. "So much money! You must be careful, Éloïse," I told her.

'Merde,' I said as I received what appeared to be final confirmation. I hadn't been expecting to hear the name. I'd assumed that, even if it was the girl, she would have used an alias. 'Éloïse, she called herself Éloïse?' I asked.

'Éloïse Joubert,' Mme. Thibauld confirmed. 'You know her?'

I shook my head sadly. 'No, but a young woman of that name has been reported missing,' I said. 'I have spoken to her parents. They are worried about her.' I reached into my bag and pulled out the photograph M. and Mme. Joubert had given me.

'That is her,' Agnès told me sadly. 'Children are both a blessing and a curse. I do not believe that someone so polite and innocent as petite Éloïse would cut a man in half. I cannot believe that she is evil.' She paused, and looked carefully into my face. 'Perhaps he deserved it,' she added, returning the conversation to where it had started stoutly. 'Some men are beasts.'

'Yes!' I nodded.

I was about to leave, to visit the room where the body still lay, when I heard raised voices coming from the hallway. With a heavy heart, and with the frightened faces of M. and Mme. Joubert foremost in my thoughts, I excused myself and left Agnès alone in her sitting room.

I stepped out into the hallway to see the back of the Police Lieutenant. He was standing in the doorway, flanked by two of his officers, and was swearing at someone outside in the street.

The Lieutenant had protested when I had removed him from the crime scene. He had spent several minutes examining my credentials. I even tried to charm him, but he was unmoved. Even though he could find no fault with my carte d'identité, it wasn't until I threatened to contact the Préfet that he finally acquiesced to my demands.

'Do you speak English? Someone should be expecting us,' a man said to the Lieutenant. He spoke in that slow and careful English the British use when speaking to foreigners.

'If you don't stop swearing at us, Lieutenant, I will report you to your superiors,' a second man said. He spoke good, if slightly accented French. The Lieutenant, who had apparently assumed that neither man spoke our mother tongue, immediately broke off his vile tirade.

I instantly recognised the voice of the second Englishman, and my heart missed a beat. I pulled out my Mirrorphone. 'Bureau des Aurors,' I said quietly.

'Bureau des Aurors,' was the instant reply.

'Call the Préfet de Police,' I said, speaking as loudly as I could. 'The Police Lieutenant is making a nuisance of himself, and he is insulting our British guests; I want him removed from the building, now. Please make certain that the Préfet is informed of the rudeness and incompetence of this officer and ensure that he is ordered to obey me.'

As I spoke, the Lieutenant turned, to better stare his hatred at me. I stared back, unmoved, and he reluctantly stepped aside to allow the two Englishmen to enter. The first was tall and fair, and gorgeous on the outside. He gave me a smile which, he hoped, would melt my heart. It was a good smile, but I could sense the clouds of despair and high barricades within him. The second was a man I had not seen for many years. He looked older, but he had matured—ripened—like good wine or fine cheese. Age had improved him, he was even more the honest and honourable man I had known all those years ago.

The Lieutenant's phone rang. As he answered it, I turned to greet the two Englishmen.

'Bonjour, très cher Denis.' I said, using, as I always had, the French pronunciation of his name.

'Bonjour, Gabi,' he replied with the shy smile and reserved politeness I had always loved. 'Tu es plus belle que jamais.'

'Merci,' I told him. So, he still thought me beautiful. I was certain that he was married, but I needed to confirm it. 'Ma sœur m'a dit que tu t'étais marié .'

'Oui,' he said, radiating happiness.

The joy in his words should have broken my heart, it did not. He was filled with a relaxed contentment, something I'd been unable to give him. Unable to stop myself, I walked over, bent forwards, kissed him on each cheek, and embraced him. His companion looked at me with a mix of lust and hope. Realising that the tall man was the sort of Englishman who would misinterpret a simple Gallic greeting as something more, I shook his hand.

'Congratulations, Denis,' I said, reverting to English. 'Your wife is lucky to have you. But aren't you going to introduce me to your companion?'

'Gabi, this is Auror Stan Cresswell,' Dennis told me. He turned to his companion. 'Stan, meet Gabrielle Delacour from le Bureau des Aurors de France,' he said.

'I think I'll put in for a transfer to Paris.' Stan imbued his words with an almost nauseating surfeit of charm.

'You'd be rejected, Stan,' I told him, not even attempting to hide my annoyance at his attempts to flirt with me. 'Because, unlike mon cher Denis, you are not qualified to be an Auror in France.'

'You need to speak the language, Stan,' Dennis told him quietly. He turned his attention back to me. Dennis' smile was bittersweet, filled with fond yesterdays and lost tomorrows. 'I'd really like to practice my French, Gabi. But, in deference to Stan, is it okay if we stick to English?'

'Oui, bien sûr,' I replied instantly.

His laughter was joyous.

While we had been talking, the Police Lieutenant had been protesting to his superiors. I heard him exclaim, 'Follow her orders!' in disbelief before the call was ended. I approached him the moment he finished speaking.

'Lieutenant,' I told him, 'no doubt you have now been apprised of the international aspect of this investigation. You and your men will step outside. Your men will guard the door. You, however, will walk along to the end of the road. Once there, you will tell the two Police Municipale officers that, although you are barely qualified to do so, mademoiselle Delacour of the DCRI has directed you to take over from them, as they no doubt have something important to do. You will use those exact words, and you will not be rude to them. Do you understand?'

'Yes, mademoiselle,' he told me through clenched teeth.

We watched the three policemen depart from building, and I closed the door behind them.

'I hope that this is, in fact, your corpse, Denis,' I said. 'I will be in a lot of trouble if we have to return jurisdiction to the Police Moldue—the Muggle police.'

'Sometimes, no matter how polite you are, they won't cooperate,' said Dennis consolingly. He glanced towards the concierge's appartement. 'There's still someone in that room, who is it? What have you got for us?'

'The building's owner, Madame Thibauld, is still here,' I looked sadly down at him. 'I believe we are dealing with a tragedy, not a mystery, Denis. The upper half of the body is upstairs, in a room which was being rented by a seventeennineteen-year-old witch. Her name is…'

Dennis' face fell as I spoke. 'Éloïse?' he asked sadly.

'Éloïse Joubert,' I confirmed.