The Dead Man's Touch, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #11. Chapter Six. Louis Shalako.

Firmin.

Louis Shalako

Upon their return to the Quai, Pelletier went off to return the vehicle, also, to tell his sergeant, Simard, that he was required in the room of the Special Homicide Unit in order to go over reports, new and old, with Maintenon. With the day almost over, this would likely include tomorrow morning as well.

Maintenon knew Simard well enough, yet he would rather let Pelletier speak on his own behalf, rather than pull rank on an old friend. It was also a test of sorts.

“Gilles. Did you seriously let that young man conduct interviews all on his own?’

“Yes. For one thing, there were a hell of a lot of servants, then the kids all came home from school, and then the old man showed up—I reckon Louise or someone dropped him a quick call and it’s only a few blocks across town.” Also, all of those interviews had been conducted before, by more experienced officers. “What if he gets something they didn’t.”

“Er…but why? Surely he’s not that good, he’s been a driver, nothing more—”

“Well, he’s got a pretty good mind. He’s not exactly a child, and he has all the same training as any other officer.” He nodded, thoughtfully. “Actually, I’m thinking of bringing him into the Unit…”

“Are you kidding? You have to be a sergeant, and have sufficient seniority, in order to even write the exam for detective. Assuming you pass the exam, you’re basically still just a sergeant until you get an assignment. Men have waited for years to get that assignment. I don’t know, he just seems a little brash to me.”

Firmin himself had waited for an assignment, and having succeeded to some degree in the Homicide Division, had been tapped, by Maintenon himself, to come into the Unit. Also, they’d known each other for years, going back to just after the War, when they were both downy-cheeked lads on the beat. To be fair, Maintenon was the older one, Gilles had done the entire four years of the War. Firmin had only been drafted in late 1917. He hadn’t exactly volunteered—not like that first mad rush of youthful idiots and patriotic as all hell when the patrie, the very nation itself was threatened. By that time, they knew what war was, what it was actually like. They’d also come pretty damned close to losing that war. No one was in any great hurry to get killed, at least not before they had to.

Truth was, France had been bled dry, or pretty near it. Simply adding one’s own blood to that puddle had been seen as increasingly pointless, especially with the Americans and their unlimited resources coming into the War.

“Ah, brash. But we phoned down for a car and it was Simard who detailed him in particular. Perhaps it was just the luck of draw, I don’t know. I have a question for you, old friend. Where does confidence come from?”

“Huh? How in the hell would I know—success, I suppose.”

“Ah. Yes—success, but there is so much more to it than that.”

“Okay.” Firmin, at his desk, had work to do, but so had they all.

And this thing with Pelletier was just a little unusual.

“Confidence comes from success, but it also comes from failure. We fail, and we somehow survive. A little time goes by, and with the benefit of a little hindsight, we realize that maybe it wasn’t so important to us after all. Whatever it was that we wanted, whatever outcome that we desired most, or even feared the most, just doesn’t seem so important anymore. We have moved on—” He sought the words, without finding the exact ones. “Pelletier has an awful lot of confidence, and I’m just wondering if he can back it up.”

And he was also wondering, just where he’d gotten it in the first place.

“Okay.” Firmin nodded.

“You know. When the War was over, and we had survived. When knew we were going to live. We were just so fucking God-damned grateful to have our lives ahead of us, when so many others did not. We still had our arms, and our legs, and our eyes—and our lungs, when you think of the gas. We had survived, and with our honour mostly intact. Our dignity, maybe not so much. The fear of failure, hardly entered into the equation, and no; no one wants to be a failure or to go hungry and homeless because of it. No one wants to get their guts ripped out by a bayonet, either. But. We were going to do what we needed to do, whatever the hell was best for us, and no one else, and to hell with what other people thought—just for example. Joining this department. After that Hell, and after military life, no one was ever going to tell us what to do again…”

Firmin nodded again.

“Yeah, I get you, and it’s your decision. You are the Boss, after all.”

“There is more to it.”

“Oh?”

“I’m going to get us that room. I’m going to get us those nice, new desks and chairs. I’m going to get us some new people, and quite frankly, qualified detectives are worth their weight in gold, and their present bosses might not be all that happy about giving them up…right?” They might even be damned hard to find. “And rather than having them handed off to us, at their choice, for unknown reasons, sometimes not very good reasons, we get to pick them and choose them and maybe even train them…fresh meat and fresh brains, right from scratch, as it were.” He grinned. “At my age, and at my rank, quite frankly, I think I rate the driver of my choice, and also, this Unit could use a few dedicated vehicles, rather than just riding along with someone else.”

Or, relying on availability down in the motor pool.

They exchanged a long look.

“Yes, Gilles.” Firmin stubbed out his cigarette and uttered a deep sigh. “Well, I guess I’d better do some work…”

He squirmed experimentally in his seat…

“New chairs, eh. Can’t come a moment too soon, at least that’s my opinion.”

Maintenon grinned at that one.

Firmin had a thought.

“Gilles. I was planning on leaving about five o’clock, and there’s no telling when or if anyone else will be back. Er—”

“Don’t worry. I will give Édouard a key, and a stiff little talk on security, and personal responsibility; his duties as an officer and a representative of the human race, and if he wants to sit up typing reports half the night, that’s fine with me. But, assuming he gets back up here in any kind of time, I will basically tell him to quit at five and go home—and come back tomorrow morning, nice and early.”

“And you’re really going to talk to Roger?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it’s your funeral.”

“Let us hope not, mon ami.”

Firmin grunted at that one.

Gilles eyed the clock. He could hang on a little longer, if need be. Among other things, he needed to stop by LeBref’s place and pick up Sylvestre—assuming the family would even let him go.

Other than all of that, it was his first day back at work. They were telling him to take it easy and he had been hoping to get out of there by four-thirty at the latest.

END

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The Dead Man's Touch, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #11. Chapter Five. Louis Shalako.

Jardine, the butler.

Louis Shalako

As long as they had the car, Gilles and Pelletier dropped the other two off at the front door of the Quai and then proceeded to their next stop. The drive was taken up by Gilles talking to the young officer, and giving him a set of very simple instructions. He had the notebook out and wrote out a list of questions as they drove, trying to keep it neat and clean and readable.

“Any questions?”

“Not really, not about any of that—”

“Yes? Go on, spit it out.”

“Well. Ah—meaning no disrespect, sir. I was just wondering how Detective LeBref got into the department at all. Er, what with being so short and all…”

“Oh, that was easy. You see, he lied about his height.” Maintenon grinned into disbelieving eyes. “Oh, and the examiner signed off on it, so that was all right.”

He went on.

“One or two of us vouched for him, and I guess no one had the heart to contradict.” And after a while, no one ever questioned it anymore. “Once he got into the Academy as a cadet, there wasn’t much to hold him back.”

“Huh.” Pelletier was shaking his head, but it would appear that they were there and there were other things to think about. “Unbelievable—really.”

“Yes, it is. The funny thing is, it’s true.” Those had been very different times and that was just the truth. “He’s also very good, which helps. I’ve also seen him take down a man who was, quite literally, twice his size.”

Pelletier looked over, eyebrows raised.

“A good, solid, round-house kick to the side of the knee. Hard shoes, get them in the right place. They’ll go down—LeBref knew that, the other guy didn’t. Never assume you’re going to win, Édouard.”

The young man nodded.

“That makes sense.”

This was an impressive house indeed, five stories, and a good fifteen metres across the façade. The trendy Marais neighbourhood was in the Fourth Arrondissement, and from a top window they might have been able to see the spire of Notre Dame. Assuming his orientation was correct, and they had followed a few twists and turns in getting here. But the cathedral would have to be off to the west and not too very far either. With multiple balconies, wrought-iron railings and decorative stone work in the Art Nouveau style, it was impressive indeed, and as if to underline that fact, there were two stable-type doors on the right side at street level that looked like an integral coach building. Whether there were horses and carriages in there he rather doubted, but expensive automobiles would not be parked in alleys or on the street—that would be just a little too much temptation. It was a little unusual for Paris, even for the rich. They were new on the case and a surprise visit might just shake something—anything, loose.

They hadn’t even bothered to phone ahead, as such houses had servants in by the day or living on the premises and fed in the household. Those servants were the real object of their mission, or so Gilles told Pelletier.

Assuming the people weren’t total tyrants, the employment would be an opportunity for quiet, and well-spoken people with perhaps not too many other, relevant skills in the modern, industrial economy. They had eyes and ears and a certain loyalty to the employer—the family, as it were. He told him that too.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, go ahead.” Gilles had taken a good look, just gaining an impression. “Push the button.”

Pelletier was impressed, to see the door opened up by what could only be the butler.

“Yes, gentlemen?”

“I’m Constable Pelletier and this is Inspector Maintenon.”

“Come in, please, gentlemen.”

Once in the door, Pelletier turned.

“And what’s your name, sir?”

“My name is Jardine, sir.” Monsieur Jardine was wearing a black crepe armband, the sign of mourning, which didn’t make all that much sense considering the tailed monkey suit was black as well.

“Thank you.” The young man made a quick note of it, although all of this would be in the reports—presumably.

He gave Gilles a look. His cue.

“We understand Monsieur Boitard is at work, today. Would the lady of the house be at home, Monsieur Jardine?”

“Ah, yes, Inspector. I believe she has finished with luncheon and will most likely be found in the sitting room.” Extending an arm, he gave a little half-bow and stepped back a little. “Or if you prefer, we do have an elevator.”

“Er, no, the stairs are fine, Monsieur.” Gilles wasn’t much of a fan of elevators, they were just a little claustrophobic for some reason.

Putting their hats down on an ornate side table, they followed him up a curving staircase and up to the second floor, which the English for some reason would have called the first. And it was just like in the photos…as for the carpet, it had been professionally cleaned in the meantime, with nary a trace of dirt or smudging.

Whatever underlay that rug was damned deep and very soft, in a luxury known to very few…

It was almost a shame to walk across that rug, and this in spite of carefully wiping their feet of imaginary contamination at the front door.

***

Jardine had left them, and the maid or housekeeper, dabbing at the eyes with a handkerchief, had followed closely behind on a brief word from the lady.

Madame Louise Boitard was clad in black from head to toe, although indoors and in the privacy of her own home, she was not veiled as she would be in Church or even if she had set even one foot outside that front door.

People were entitled to their privacy, and her grief was written on her calm visage.

As for the victim, Cynthie, she’d been interred a few days before.

As befitted one of her status, she appeared to have a kind of ruthless self-control, in terms of conspicuous displays of emotion or even personality.

“Good morning, Madame Boitard. We regret this intrusion, however, we must proceed with our investigations.” Maintenon gave a stiff little bow, and waited for the invitation…

“Thank you. Please be seated, gentlemen.”

With a glance at Gilles, Pelletier whipped out the trusty notebook and took a seat on the other end of the couch, more facing his way than hers, the body language clearly representing deference, not so much to the lady as to him. Gilles took a chair opposite the lady. He was not there to confront the lady.

“This is Constable Pelletier and he will be assisting us this afternoon.”

She gave him a polite nod and a short glance.

“Very well, Constable.”

“First, you have our deepest condolences, Madame Boitard. Naturally, we understand that this is deeply painful for yourself, as well as friends and family. School-friends, for example.” The constable had a good voice, strong and deep, and a surprising warmth, which would be difficult to fake.

She sighed, giving Maintenon a long look.

“Surely, we have been all over this before—” The crime had happened a little over a week previously, and for the first two or three days at least, the flics would have tromped all over the place, and interviewed pretty much everybody.

Maintenon shrugged, and let the younger man take it.

“Yes, I understand, Madame, but it seems the investigation has reached an impasse. For that reason, the Special Homicide Unit has been assigned the case. Inspector Maintenon’s reputation is well-known. Er—I’m not too sure why I am here, but that’s his choice, and in fact, any police officer has the training, and the ability, and the legal and moral obligation to investigate any crime, and homicide is the most serious of offences under the law…other than that, I go where I am told.” His quick and direct look into Maintenon’s eyes had a trace of frank humour, but he quickly dropped back to the page.

Louise nodded gravely, following along.

Maintenon closed his mouth, and listened in fascination as Édouard flipped a page and started in on the questions—his own questions, and not provided by anything other than his own mind.

The kid was good, considering his actual age and experience. He’d give him that much.

It wouldn’t do to underestimate such a mind, and the fellow clearly had some instincts of his own.

“Okay, Madame. Let’s go back to school friends for starters. Did Cynthie have any special friends, ones she might have mentioned more often, or maybe brought them home for dinner or a holiday or something? Quite frankly, Madame, the longer the list, the better, and we’re looking for detail here. The point is, that someone must know something, perhaps the sort of thing she might not tell…her own family?”

“Well…I suppose, I know what you’re getting at. The sort of thing she wouldn’t tell…tell her own mother…” There was a catch in the voice and she reached for her own handkerchief.

Still, she had control and the eyes remained dry although the mouth quivered.

Maintenon hauled out his own notebook and started taking a few notes of his own, leaving Pelletier to handle the interview without having the distraction of having to do everything himself.

“Okay. So, who would you say would be her best friend at school…”

***

It was gratifying to see that the constable had asked pretty much all of Gilles’ questions, plus a few more besides. The pair had filled up a few pages of notes. With the permission of the lady of the house, they’d be going through all of the available servants, all of whom would be getting the same sort of questions. In the meantime, the pair stood in the girl’s bedroom. The purpose was two-fold. One, just to get a look at the place, and the layout, and gaining some kind of impression. The second was to review privately, what they had learned if anything at all.

As for impressions, it was all very feminine, with a pair of large windows looking out over a courtyard and the backs of similar maisons across the way.

“So, Édouard. We have photos, which you have not seen, and reports, which you have not read. Luckily, I have. There’s nothing really startling here, other than the fact the girls slept on the third floor and the boys on the fourth. It’s a big house, they have the space, and it’s quite a large family, which is a bit unusual in, er, the more prosperous families…”

Live-in servants on the top floor, mostly female. Jardine had his own little suite, tucked in at the end of the second-floor back hallway. Right behind the kitchen, which would have taken up Maintenon’s entire flat in terms of square footage. Other than the driver, who had a room just in behind the garage area, Jardine was pretty much all that stood for security, although he was hardly a bodyguard—more of a trusted, senior servant and no doubts about that.

“And mom and pop have the second floor, along with rooms for honoured house-guests, as the lady said. It’s a different world, where entertaining lots of other folks, admittedly those with money, is de rigeur—hospitality, even generosity, is expected in the rich…”

“Hmn. Exactly.” Gilles looked at his watch. “Well, I suppose we’d better tackle the housemaids—figuratively speaking of course.”

Pelletier grinned at that one.

“I’ll take that black-haired one in the kitchen…if you don’t mind, sir.” Realizing what he’d said, he sort of half-froze for a second, looking a bit stunned.

Maintenon laughed in spite of himself.

“Yes, I should think that’s best.”

Whatever Pelletier might have said next, he managed to bite that one off and swallow it.

“Er—yes, sir.”

END

Previous Episodes:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

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The Dead Man's Touch, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #11. Chapter Four. Louis Shalako.

Garnier: I shall try and get the right guy.

Louis Shalako

On their return to the building, Gilles had instructed the young constable to put the vehicle away and tell his supervisor that he was wanted upstairs. Garnier and Maintenon had barely put their hats on the rack before Édouard returned, slightly out of breath but it was a long ways up and the motor pool was at the back of the building.

“All right, young man. Here, have a seat, you can use my machine.” Martin picked up a few files and got them out of his way. “What we need is a report, simple, direct and concise.”

He needed some of those files, and he would be on his way in a moment…Levain’s desk was right there and unoccupied.

On a nod from Gilles, Édouard settled into Garnier’s chair.

“There’s paper in the second right-hand drawer, and there’s coffee in the urn. Rinse your cup out when you’re done or someone will give you shit for it.” Garnier—

Édouard nodded at that one, opened up his notebook and refreshed his memory. Reaching down, he found the carbon paper in the next drawer down, seemingly intuitive in his own right.

“Hammered out in triplicate?”

“Oui, mon ami.” Garnier gave Gilles a wink.

“What did you say your last name was?”

The constable looked up.

“Pelletier, Inspector. Constable, first class, four years with the department. Sergeant Simard is our supervisor.” That would make him about twenty-three years old, maybe a little older than that, but.

He was nothing if not young.

“Thank you.” Gilles made a note of it. “Congratulations on solving your first big case.”

Édouard, as well as Garnier, and Firmin, the only others in the room, chuckled at that one.

“Thank you, sir. Ah—” There was a faint blush on that face.

“Yes?”

“Well. I told my mother I was going to run away once…but only once. I don’t know, I doubt if I was ten years old, if that.”

There were grins all around.

“Okay, I’ll bite.” Firmin. “So, what happened?”

“She packed me a lunch, and told me don’t come back until I’d smartened up.” A very wise woman, in other words.

“So, what did you do.”

“Ha. I walked across to the other side of the park, which was not too far away from our house. Sat on a bench and had my lunch.” He shook his head. “Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, as I recall.”

“Uh—okay.” Firmin again. “I suppose I asked for it.”

“Well. All righty then.” Édouard cranked a fresh sheet into the machine and began to peck tentatively at the keys, not that speed was all that important when all you were doing was the date and the heading and such.

Name and badge number, incident report number, officer of record…all kinds of useful stuff on that heading.

He checked his watch and the clock on the wall…

Garnier snapped his briefcase shut.

“Well, I’m off, unless there was something else.”

“Non. Good luck, and good hunting.” Maintenon—

Garnier nodded.

“I shall try and get the right guy.”

It just was a little saying they had around there.

An unofficial motto, as it were.

***

With Firmin wading through stacks of reports, in preparation for a court appearance later in the week, and sort of stuck in the room, in spite of all that, a few of them had managed to sneak out for a good lunch…he would be giving testimony under oath, and accuracy, above all else, was the order of the day.

Levain was still on vacation with the wife and kids, something Gilles hadn’t known about, or had simply forgotten in the meantime as such things were scheduled well in advance. Élliot Lebeau was on honeymoon with the lovely Cappucine, having taken a leave of absence and having married the girl. Those two were still down in Bagneres du Luchon as far as anyone knew. That part Gilles knew about. With his job being held for him, it was anyone’s guess whether the pair would move to Paris or whether he’d just chuck it and become a farmer down there. With Archambault and Margot busy as bees with their own case-loads, it was just the four of them. Garnier hadn’t come back yet, but they’d left a note and perhaps he’d make it after all. Garnier would be gone for the afternoon or so he’d said.

That just left Gilles, Firmin, LeBref, and young Pelletier. This was handy enough, and in fact he’d nipped down and bagged them a car again, with Simard being cooperative enough, maybe even happy to see the young fellow presented with something of an opportunity. As for Gilles and the others, a chance for a bit of gossip, and a bit of catching-up.

Anton’s was a typical brasserie, about halfway between haute cuisine and the more informal bistro, (not that bar food wasn’t good once in a while), in that the menu was printed rather than chalked on a board, and there were other differences, including tablecloths and proper linen napkins. Among other things, a chance to observe—Pelletier, for example.

With a long table that might have handled six or eight, they could pile their hats on one end and live with it, but to eat with one’s hat on would have been uncivilized.

LeBref’s eyes gleamed from across the table.

“Gilles. Are you really going to talk to Roger?”

“Uh-huh.” Gilles had sipped at a beer, picked at his salad, and nibbled on a warm soft bun, but what he was really waiting for was the special. “It seems to me, that we’ve been talking about this, literally for years, and yet nothing, so far, has actually been done about it.”

“It’s just that there’s a big room on the second floor. The old home of the Street Crimes Unit.” This had been disbanded in a cost-cutting initiative, with all the officers rolled back into more regular duties. “It’s not on the street, but there are windows over the alley, and it’s more than big enough.”

What they wanted to avoid was an inner chamber, without a single window in the place.

This observation brought sage nods of agreement.

What had begun as preventative medicine, a kind of outreach program and very modern, had turned into something much more expensive over time, in the sense that it prevented crime rather than dishing out punishments and therefore, splashy headlines. You were never going to get a citation for preventing crime, which depended on statistics and measurements. How could one measure that which did not occur in the first place? How could anyone prove what might have happened, but did not. And then there were the headlines. Which were only a deterrent to those unlikely to commit a major crime in the first place, and fuck the rest of the human race—and of course the bourgeoisie hated it.

They hated paying taxes, but if they must pay taxes, then let them see the results, in arrests, charges, convictions. What they really wanted, were punishments, harsh and visible.

Be that as it may, and they all had their own opinions. The funny thing about the police, they all had more or less the same training, and more or less the same information, all the same sort of experiences, and yet they had some strongly opposing opinions at times.

“And. I am a detective, after all—” He grinned. “I’ll see if I can get us a key. Oh—we might want to grab that before somebody else does.”

Maintenon nodded. He’d have to have a look at it and maybe talk to Roger. Whatever happened, perhaps just painting or refreshing the old room, they would still need a place to work in the meantime. It was true, that everybody talked to LeBref, who didn’t seem like much of a threat, and so everybody seemed to underestimate him. Yet he had a damned sharp mind, or he never would have succeeded, in what was a competitive environment, and a very tough job at the best of times. It was a funny thing with LeBref, he was such an extraordinary-looking man, and yet he could tail with the best of them and never be spotted.

Firmin accepted a refill on the coffee, as their server went around the table.

“Are you serious? A new room? I mean, new desks, new chairs, new typewriters…new lights. New tele-printer, and maybe a brand-new mimeograph? I don’t believe it.” And more people—unbelievable. “Don’t forget, his and hers bathrooms, and a kitchenette with hot and cold running water, a refrigerator, a sink, a shower, a proper closet, proper lockers…but I could go on.”

“There’s no guarantee that we’ll get all of that. Or even any of it.”

“True.”

Maintenon’s chin lifted.

“Ah. Here we are—at last.” The waiter, all hands and fingers and manual dexterity, laden with plates, had returned.

Steak frites, with escargot, onion soup and all the usual fixings. Such was the Monday special, and while the place might be a little expensive for the average flic, certainly on a daily basis, this particular establishment was well-known to their higher-ups, and only a few blocks away from the Quai d’Orfevres.

Young Pelletier had taken a look at the menu, eyed Maintenon, but hadn’t kicked up too much of a fuss, discretion or even diplomacy being the better part of valour as people said, and he was there for a reason after all.

As for Gilles, it sure beat the hell out of hospital food.

It beat all hell out of a lot of things.

Firmin leaned over and gave Gilles a good nudge in the ribs.

“You did have a good vacation, didn’t you.”

And sometimes, all you can do is to laugh—

END

Previous Episodes:

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Louis has books and stories available from iTunes.

See his works on Artpal.

Thank you for reading.

The Dead Man's Touch, The Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series #11. Chapter Three. Louis Shalako.

Édouard.

Louis Shalako

Édouard was their driver, the young police constable having introduced himself politely and seemingly impressed by his human cargo. He’d obviously heard much of the great Maintenon, a fact which could be a real pain in the ass sometimes and fairly useful at others. Considering all the newspaper coverage of Maintenon’s last case, he seemed unfazed. If nothing else, it kept small talk to a minimum, but there was also the danger of loose talk. Since he and Garnier didn’t know much about any of their cases so far, there wasn’t much of a problem, but if nothing else the kid would pick up on things quickly enough.

Other than that, the driving was fairly professional, the young fellow being smart enough not to try to impress the big guys with sheer speed and brutal ferocity. If a driver pulled that shit on the wrong senior officer, they were just as likely to be let go as to get a promotion—and that was for sure.

Their first stop was about twenty-five minutes across town, and they filled it with small talk easily. When the talk turned to football, with Garnier and Édouard up front, even Gilles had an observation or two, which they seemed to take seriously even though he didn’t know a damned thing about it, other than what he read in the papers or heard on the radio.

Édouard turned and gave him a quick grin, perhaps not so intimidated now.

“Here we are, sirs.”

Number Nineteen, Rue des Erables, in the 16^th Arrondissement.

“Thank you, Édouard…”

The young man was already out and scurrying around to get the door.

They stood on the pavement, in what was clearly lower-end housing, on little more than an alley, with barely enough room for two small vehicles to pass, mirror-to-mirror and hopefully not in any big hurry to do so. Just up the way, a lorry was parked, on the handbrake and with the engine still running judging from the exhaust, and if one wanted to get by, well, one would just have to wait—

“Okay, Constable. Stand by, listen to the radio, and be prepared to move the car. I guess.”

It would be better not to get boxed in by another vehicle…

“Yes, sir.”

Gilles and Garnier mounted the steps and opened up the door to the usual cramped lobby, dimly-lit by a frosted glass panel beside the door and replete with mailboxes, one of which had a broken lock, and little buttons to push, assuming they even worked at all.

They were looking for four-oh-two.

***

The husband was at work and the kids were in school. This left Madame Garreau, Janine to her friends.

A face which had sort of lifted upon the sight of them grew dimmer upon an examination of their faces, and opening up the door further, she led them into the sitting room. The flat was small, cramped, and conspicuously clean. The hutch in the corner was quite good, most likely a family heirloom, practical enough but also of some sentimental value. A reminder of better times, perhaps.

A homely woman in the best sense of the word. That body had borne children, that voluminous bosom had nursed them and weaned them, those sturdy legs and shoulders had worked and slaved to keep the lot of them going, probably including the husband, who would demand hot food at the end of a long day engaged in some menial task, and likely at the lowest possible pay. Her apron no longer white, and with a smudge of flour on her cheek, she’d been in the kitchen rolling dough or kneading bread. The dress was a sack of thin material and the shoes were flat, what had once been knee-high stockings falling down around the ankles, all elasticity long since gone. In that sense they matched the face. There was the faint trace of a mustache, and those eyebrows had been plucked many times over the years.

“Yes, gentlemen.” She sat on the arm of a padded chair, her face grave and calm.

Clearly she was expecting the worst.

Gilles was letting Garnier do the talking.

“I’m afraid we don’t have any news for you, Madame. Not good news and certainly not bad news. It’s just that we have a few more questions, Madame…”

Not unexpectedly, she put her head down and the tears rolled.

“Oh, Alain, oh, my poor, sweet little boy.”

Martin was up off the sofa and offering a handkerchief.

“There, there, my dear, we’ll find him.” It wasn’t clear, whether that meant a body or the young man himself, on his own two feet or whatever. “Surely someone must know something.”

And that was why they were here—

There was a tentative little knock at the door. With Garnier and the lady busy, Gilles hauled himself up and went to the door.

It was Édouard.

“Yes?”

The voice was low.

“Sorry, sir, it’s just that there’s a young man here…he’s asking to speak to us.”

“Hmn. Who? Why? What does he want?” He glanced back, to where the lady seemed to be recovering. “All right, all right. I’m coming.”

And to hell with the hat, which was still sitting on an end table…that old head of his could stand a few minutes of sunshine.

***

A young man stood by the front fender of the Citroen, eyes clouded with doubts.

His mouth curled, but he bit back any semblance of a smile. This could only be—

“He says he lives here.”

“Monsieur Garreau?”

“Sir.”

“Wait here.”

Taking Édouard’s elbow, he led him a few paces away.

“Report.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” He took a quick breath. “Okay. I didn’t really take much notice of him at first.”

He held up a rag, he’d been polishing the windshield or the grille or something.

“He was hanging around the end of the block. There was just something about him—he was paying me, or us, you might say, just a little too much attention. I am in uniform, after all, and we are parked out in front of his maison. I turned to look at him, and I thought he was going to bolt. Like a common punk. Yet he really wasn’t doing anything.”

“Well, it’s always good to get the right guy. And you’re not the Truant Officer. Or a baby-sitter. So, what happened next?”

“I said, hey! Hey you. Come here—and he did. Much to my surprise. I mean, if he had simply taken off, what was I supposed to do—right?” Abandoning the vehicle and the senior officers would be a big step, although he might have taken it.

And if he had caught him, what then?

“All right.” Gilles held up a hand to staunch the flow of talk. “Here’s how I want you to play this…oh, give me your notebook.”

He pulled a pen and made a few notes.

“…read this.”

***

When Gilles got back inside, Garnier had his own notebook out and was scribbling away if only for the sake of form.

“…such a good boy. He was never in any trouble, not really. He’s never been out of control, he’s never run away—not before, and I don’t believe it now…never been interested in the girls, never smoked, he’s never touched a drop of the liquor…goes with me to Church every Sunday Mass…his friends are such nice boys…” The lady was a good Catholic, and that went without saying.

Although it was bound to come up.

Gilles fought for composure, the urge to smile or to laugh outright, almost overwhelming.

She was still talking when a small girl came in from the rear, staring at them with eyes wide.

“Are you going to find my brother?” Those innocent blue eyes regarded him.

“Er, yes, young lady.” He was about to go on—

There was the knock at the door, and right on time, too. He uttered a theatrical sigh…he raised his voice.

“Yes, Édouard, come in, please.” He didn’t get up this time, giving the impression of a slightly impatient older man, repressing another sigh as it were.

Pure boredom, rude as that might appear to be.

The lady screamed, hand flying up to her mouth.

Up like a shot, almost bowling over Garnier, also half out of his chair, she was on the young man in a heartbeat, and then the little kid was shouting too, and dancing around, arms up, her bare feet paddling the floor.

“Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God—nom de Dieu—”

Garnier got his balance and straightened up.

“…oh, Alain…” The woman was blubbering away and smothering the young fool with kisses.

Garnier gave Gilles an accusing look.

“Wow. And just how in the hell did you manage to pull that one off—sir.”

END

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The Dead Man's Touch, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #11. Chapter Two. Louis Shalako.

Margot.

Louis Shalako

The first case was that of a young man, Alain Garreau, nineteen years old. Missing for two weeks, no body, no sightings. Friends and family knew nothing. No one knew anything, and yet the mother was utterly convinced.

Whether she was merely hysterical, or had some knowledge that she wasn’t willing to share, was a good question, but she was certain her little boy had been killed. Not knocked down by a bus, not drowned in the river, but brutally murdered by someone or something nameless, and for reasons unknown. His few friends had claimed to know nothing of his whereabouts or the reason for his absence. He had not turned up at his employment, working evenings and weekends at a small green-grocers just blocks away from home, in fact the mother shopped there regularly—it was that close. With no evidence, none whatsoever, for or against, one must wonder if a body would eventually turn up—dead or alive. The thoughts of her precious little boy, simply running away from home, were somehow inconceivable to the lady; a familiar type.

And where the hell was he supposed to go—right.

This one didn’t seem all that interesting so far, and he set that one aside.

The next one was a little better.

A young woman, dead in her bed—strangled, and with big, dirty shoe-prints leading in from the front door. Across that beautiful white carpet—it was that kind of house, and up those stairs and down that hallway and ending up right at the bedside. Where, presumably, the young lady had been sleeping, oblivious to the danger. The same prints going back down, the other way, fading out as dirt and crud and moisture was lost with each and every step. That might have been all right, figuratively speaking. It had been a rainy night, with dirty puddles and genuine mud all over the place. There were photos and everything and it all seemed cut-and dried. But. Murder by unknown stranger was also quite rare—those were very difficult to solve, not without witnesses, and especially not without a known motive. But it was a very prosperous household. The family name, Boitard, was well-known, the house very modern, which included proper deadbolts, and all known keys accounted for—mostly, and it would be easy enough to make a copy. The idea of a stranger, a burglar, picking a deadbolt on the front door and then just killing someone for the sheer hell of it wasn’t very convincing in the eyes of the attending detectives and he could certainly understand why. Nothing of any real value had been taken, or so they said—just a life. The home of a banker, there were plenty of objets d’art, pictures on the wall, hell, even the booze in the cabinet had its value. Bankers were smart enough not to keep large sums of money in the house, although there would be some small cash, in a wallet or a purse…there was the silverware. The housekeeper kept a small lock-box in a drawer of her own little desk. Petty cash, and never more than a hundred francs in there. There had been no signs of tampering and according to her, nothing had been disturbed.

Also, a proper burglar would have come in a window, a back door. The cellar door, a coal chute. If surprised in the act, they might have strangled someone, but why put them back to bed? Why not just run for the door. The detectives on scene, hadn’t gotten anywhere else with it.

“Hmn. The butler did it.” He tossed that one aside. “Any honest criminal would have wiped his shoes on the mat by the door.”

Pros tried very hard, not to leave any evidence at all. Amateurs spewed clues, real and fake, all over the place. Also, locking back up again would take real nerve, and possibly a good bit of time—and yet that was what, ostensibly, had happened. It was barely possible, that a real pro would try to make it look like an inside job, in which case the question was, why the footprints?

Just then, there were footsteps and the door came crashing open. The door closed with a bang and he looked up.

Margot—

Putting her bag down, and turning, she saw him.

“Gilles!” Margot, and making a beeline for him as he quickly stood. “Oh, Gilles, it’s so good to see you. Especially as we thought you were a goner—”

Standing, he was cornered there by the side of the desk and she was going to hug him whether he liked it or not. There were a couple of clicks from the mid-back area as she readjusted his spine for him.

“Er, thank you, my dear.”

Right out of nowhere, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek and turned away, eyes suspiciously moist, and engaged in the immediate business of stowing her jacket, the hat, and the contents of the briefcase.

“LeBref has your cat.”

“Yes, I know.” He settled in again, wondering, but the others were somewhat unlikely to hug him, although handshakes and all kinds of talk would appear to be inevitable.

They’d only let him out of the hospital Friday, and the weekend had been spent quietly, doing a bit of shopping and stocking up on a few things for the kitchen.

There was that third file sitting there waiting for him.

He sighed, deeply.

“Ah, what the hell.” Opening up, he began to read.

***

The third file wasn’t so much bizarre, as intriguing. Just what the doctor might have ordered if only he wasn’t such a fussy old fool, likable enough for all of that. Two dead young men, blood stains and a weapon. The bodies are missing, and just a tonne of blood on the floor, the counters, and the knives. Big, fat, and very sharp carving knives. Kitchen staff, no one saw or heard anything—or so they were saying. If one young fellow had killed the other, that was one thing. For two young men to kill each other, (and how was that even possible), and one must also ask just how the bodies had been removed. If one had killed the other, why remove the body at all…unless to obscure exactly which one had been killed, and thereby, which one had been guilty. Why the two knives. That part was a little bizarre, one had to admit. It would have taken some thought, some planning, in what was ostensibly une crime passionnel. And the kitchen in question was busy—he knew the place, although he’d never eaten there. The sort of restaurant that was talked about, and by all the right people. Whatever had happened, hadn’t taken much more than thirty seconds, a minute at most, when all others were either absent from the room or just plain busy. Which did not necessarily make it impossible. It was hard to believe someone being stabbed wouldn’t have screamed or made some other noises…it was hard to believe the whole crew would leave the room, and all at the same time.

That would have been too convenient, and everyone was denying it anyways—

Other than that, it was one hell of a set-up, and there was much food for thought there.

With the stories of their fellow workers more or less unshakeable, this one looked interesting enough…

He went back and read them all through again, hopefully Andre or somebody would show up and they could get down to work. It was doctor’s orders, and for the next few weeks he wouldn’t be working alone, not for any reason, anywhere other than this very room. They were right about concussions, of course, but the truth was that he felt all right and it was time to move on.

He looked up at the clock. He’d take just about anybody, at this point.

One of the young bucks might be best, leaving Margot and the older ones for the more important stuff.

***

“Ah.”

“Good morning, sir.” Martin Garnier, whom Gilles had met briefly down in Bagneres du Luchon. “It’s good to see you’re back. I’m Garnier.”

“Yes, I know. I thank you for your work here, also, er, down there.”

“Yes, sir.” Garnier was a sergeant now, having passed the test with flying colours and with sufficient seniority to make his current assignment stick well enough.

Other than that, Maintenon didn’t know much about the man.

“Okay, grab yourself a coffee and we’ll talk.”

“Absolutely.” The grin said it all, but that coffee pot was part of the routine around here and he knew it well by this time. “Oh.”

Garnier reached into a pocket and pulled out a box of his favourite thin black cheroots.

With a slight blush to the cheekbones, he laid them reverently on the corner of Maintenon’s desk.

“It’s a real honour to be here, sir.”

Maintenon nodded wordlessly, and why dispute the obvious. The man had earned it, after all.

…and here was LeBref again, and right behind him, Archambault, and then Firmin. More bonhomie. It had to end eventually, and yet it felt pretty good as well. He’d missed them all, just as much as they’d missed him. Finally, they settled down, some to their desks and one or two right out that door just about as quickly as they’d come in. It was like they just wanted to touch him, a touch on the shoulder, a pat on the back…they wanted to hear him talk; just convincing themselves it was real, perhaps.

He’d come back from the dead, after all.

“Where’s Hubert?”

Margot looked up.

“Still at the hospital.”

“Ah.”

“I’m giving fifty-fifty odds. It’s either a girl or a boy—”

Maintenon grinned and she put her head down and went back to work.

He looked at Martin, seated by now at his own desk.

“Are you super busy today? Anything truly pressing, anything you just can’t get out of?”

“Ah—no, no, sir.”

“All right. We’ll take off in a few minutes, assuming you have to make quick call or something…”

Martin Garnier looked at the files on the desk, a few brief notes there, and shook his head.

“Nothing that can’t wait until later.”

“All right. Just give me a minute and we’ll be out of here. Ah—we’ll need a car.”

With a nod, Garnier reached for the phone as Gilles idly opened up a desk drawer.

He didn’t think he’d need it, but he was sort of curious to know what they’d done with his weapons.

END

Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Amazon.

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His story, The Haunted Hills, appears in Helion Science Fiction, in Romanian Translation.

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