Saturday, 30 May 2026

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

Well. How was that for a story.














Louis Shalako




Roger stood at a beautiful molded-wood lectern, Art Deco at its best, which had been brought in for the occasion. There were a handful of microphones clamped to the opposite side, with the station call-letters prominently displayed, not so much for Roger as for the cameras, the competition and the dignitaries.

“First of all, ladies and gentlemen, thank you all for coming out today.”

A flashbulb popped and he waited.

“Ladies and gentlemen, members of the press and the radio news services, members of the public and the citizens of France, welcome to the new home of the Special Homicide Unit here in Paris. Which, in keeping with the times, is being thoroughly modernized as well as expanded. You all know their reputation, which lies in the past as well as the future. This will be a kinder, gentler kind of policing, not so much for the criminals, who have earned their fates, as for the fine officers who have to deal with them. And deal with them they will. These facilities are all new, well-designed and well-appointed. We have new methods, new procedures, and new systems. It’s a whole new organization, building on the foundations of the old. We’ll be taking a little tour presently. You will all be welcome to take photographs and to ask any questions. In the meantime, please allow me to introduce the newest members of this Unit, and also to indulge us in a little ceremony—or two.”

Roger stepped forward, with Gilles on his left and Hermione on the right. Beside her, the Deputy Minister—

He brandished an outsized set of golden scissors, fake of course but shiny even in a black and white photo…which would be on all the front pages later this day.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

He cut the red, crepe-paper ribbon strung across a couple of small pedestals, not unlike the ones that supported the velvet ropes in a museum, or even the average bank line-up. He stepped back.

The flashbulbs popped again, and Roger went back to the microphone as Gilles and Hermione gathered the ribbon and stepped back into their line of officers. Monsieur Étienne, beaming from the immediate sidelines, represented the very Republique itself.

“Okay. First, I’d like to welcome Acting Sergeant Édouard Pelletier. Édouard, as you know from your own coverage, was very much instrumental in helping to solve the Boitard case, a case which was originally considered, er, rather impenetrable.” He held up a certificate. “We congratulate you on your success, and your promotion to Sergeant is now official.”

There was polite applause and muttering from the people.

Pelletier was in a new suit, charcoal grey with a pale yellow shirt and an electric blue tie. Those shoes were brand new, and he dare not walk too much or they would squeak. Not being in uniform, he didn’t salute but raised a friendly wave in the general direction of the attendees.

His mother, his father and two sisters were in the audience. It was a proud moment, and why not.

Good old Bill...

“Next, Sergeant Janine Lacorse, also instrumental in the investigation, which, as I am sure you know, is still ongoing in regards to the details. I am afraid I cannot comment on certain matters before the courts, however bear in mind we have laid dozens of charges, detained numerous suspects and also, recovered four-point-seven million francs, virtually all of it in gold, although there were a handful of other assets involved, this including two-hundred-fifty-thousand in bearer bonds. These would have been negotiable at any major bank, by virtually any person. They are, shall we say, extremely portable wealth and that is probably why they were stolen in the first place.” A well-known reporter from an American radio news service, bent at the waist, scuttled forward and gently tapped the wire going into the back of his own mic and then got out the hell of there.

This was Bill, as he insisted on being called whenever he wasn’t on-air.

Good old Bill.

Going by the look on his face, whatever the problem had been, it had been resolved, as the technicians, wearing headphones, broadcasting to the outside world, and all lined up in a row at their own long table off to one side, nodded, looked right and left to see who was who and what was what, and decided the problem had probably been resolved. This type of world-wide, live broadcast was a new thing, only having been instituted in March, (and with some fanfare), and naturally some occasional technical problems might be expected.

“While I cannot comment on matters before a court, I can state as a matter of public record that Monsieurs Jardine and Boitard have been charged with homicide, in regards to the deaths of all three victims. And, as professional journalists you understand that police and the courts do hope that we all respect the privacy of the victims and the families of all involved…”

Hmn. Like that was going to do any good, thought Gilles…

Roger took a quick drink of water from a green glass bottle and the reporters scribbled and one or two more flashbulbs went off.

“I would also like to welcome to the Unit, Constable Hermione, a graduate of the Academy and on her first assignment since completing her probationary period.”

In uniform, she stepped forward and gave a snappy salute as more flashbulbs went off, admittedly mostly the male photographers. There were one or two women among them, and there were a few officers from other units there as well. As for the civilian audience, they were lined up in a couple of rows of chairs and included wives, husbands, children, proud parents and maybe even one or two folks who had shown up just for the free coffee and doughnuts.

They were welcome enough and it takes all kinds to make a crowd. Andre Levain, introduced as the deputy head of the unit, Firmin, Archambault, they were all there. Hubert, Garnier, Margot. The new guy, Bazin, looking a little shy, but what the hell.

There was a smattering of applause when LeBeau was introduced. They knew all about him all right, what with the rather sensational news coverage in the Smirnov case. He nodded gravely, with a slight wave and a short bow from the waist…

“And now, we come to a very special moment. But first, I would like to introduce Monsieur Étienne, our very own Deputy Minister of Justice.”

More applause, almost as if on cue, the police taking it up first and then the others following along.

Roger stepped aside, lifted an arm and the gentleman himself took the lectern, and the microphones.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Ahem. It is a very special privilege and an honour to be here this day, with the opening of this new room and this Unit, having been reborn as it were. And I know they will be very successful. But that is not why I am here. No, ladies and gentlemen, we are here today to honour a very special person…”

Maintenon, bored stiff.

Gilles, standing there with hands casually crossed in front of him, was fighting back a yawn—

Fuck, there had to be forty people, not including Roger and the Minister, and his own Unit, which was getting up to twelve or thirteen people all of a sudden, and with plenty of room for more whenever they came along…this shit could only go on for so long.

“…and, in recognition of his courage under fire, his willingness to risk his own life in order to protect the lives of others…”

His mind had been wandering, but it seemed that someone, probably LeBeau, was getting a commendation, and good for him, too.

“…having been struck on the head with a very large rock, having slid down the riverbank and into the water, not only did he survive drowning and hypothermia, concussion and shock, but also temporary amnesia, and then this man came back from the dead, ladies and gentlemen, and not only that, took on, with Detective LeBeau, a gang of criminals and perverts…”

And then there was the part about the shoot-out…

Merde.

Fuck.

God damn it—

This wasn’t for LeBeau. This one was for him—

A fucking medal, and for crying out loud. A useless chunk of bronze on a ribbon, and it would gather dust in the top drawer of the dresser. He was very angry all of a sudden. All of this, and the fucking butler had done it after all.

Just like he’d said in the first place.

He turned and glared at Roger.

This was fucking revenge, all right.


END


Previous Episodes. 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six












The butler did it after all...



















His audiobook, Dead Reckoning, the tenth in the Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series, is free from Google Play.




Thank you for reading.

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Sunday, 24 May 2026

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











Louis Shalako




Roger, Gilles and Hermione sat in Roger’s office. The commissioner had gotten a couple of technical people to bring in a full-frequency radio, to set it up and make it work. There were wires and cables going all over the place, but the thing had different components, all of which had to have power and it also had to be patched into the rooftop antenna. Even now, the senior man had headphones on and one of the newfangled tape recorders was rolling.

His eyes gleamed as he looked at the big map up on the wall and then caught Maintenon’s eye.

“Car one-oh-seven, come in please.”

“Car one-oh-seven, go ahead. Over.”

“Who’s car one-oh-seven?” Hermione, pencil poised over her steno pad, all set to take it down in shorthand.

“Firmin and Janine. They’re following Boitard.”

“Shush.” Roger was leaning forward, trying to catch every nuance, every inflection of the voices.

Boitard, and the chauffer, had taken off very early for them. About ten minutes after the steam-shovel had arrived on scene. Officers on the front door had been instructed to let them go, which wasn’t all that much of a gamble. If questioned, officers had been instructed to shrug their shoulders, say that they really didn’t know too much about it, and to refer them to Inspector Maintenon—which clearly hadn’t happened.

“Car one-oh-seven.”

That was car one-twenty-nine, LeBref and Margot.

Boitard knew what it was about all right, although it would not be considered definitive proof. It would carry some weight in court. Purely circumstantial though it might be.

So far, they had not gone to the bank. They had driven straight to the address believed to be that of the mistress…

“…where’s he going, car one-oh-seven…” Margot, on the passenger side and handling communications.

“Car one-two-nine. Straight to the fucking Croix de Feu, one would think…”

Both tails involved two cars, for reasons which would become readily apparent if someone had a puncture. Alphonse had lost a suspect once for just that reason—a flat tire. And a flat spare in the trunk. As Gilles recalled, that hadn’t been all that long ago, and they’d put all new rubber on the vehicle. He grinned at the thought. Good old Alphonse, always thinking ahead—

Considering the sheer numbers, they’d had to draft in a few officers, all of them in plain clothes and all the cars were unmarked.

“I wish I could be there.” Roger meant the bank.

“Hmn. Levain, Archambault, Pelletier and Hubert should suffice, and a handful of uniformed officers for security.” Gilles nodded. “If I’m wrong, we avoid the embarrassment of you being there.”

As it was, the branch would be closed until further notice, and with a seal on the door…

It wouldn’t be very long before the news-hounds got a hold of it, and then there would be the cameras and the flash-bulbs, a scrum, and with people shouting questions all at once.

It was better to wait and see.

“Huh.”

“And I get to wear the egg, all over my face, rather than you. But. I can always take early retirement…”

“Argh, Gilles.”

Whether his hunch was correct or not, they had the warrant, and they would find out soon enough.

Good old Rochfort! But they’d be serving up one hell of a pile of warrants this morning, and poor old Pelletier had been the one to type up the requests. After all of that, he’d be getting quite good at it…

“Okay. He’s coming out, car one-oh-seven.”

“Roger, one-two-nine.”

***

“Ah. Here’s the chauffeur with a couple of suitcases. Looks like the old man is going somewhere…there’s a lady in the window, left side, three floors up—that’s probably her.”

“Roger. We see him. And her.”

“I keep thinking they’re talking to me.” Roger—

“Thank you, one-two-nine. Over.”

“They are talking to you, Roger.”

Hermione smirked at that one and kept writing.

Roger engaged her with the eyes.

“Yes—I suppose they are at that.” He turned to Gilles. “That’s handy enough. A suitcase or two, and a change of clothes at the mistress’s place.”

“Huh.” Gilles was wondering what else might be in that suitcase.

Or even the car, which had never been closely examined.

But Boitard looked to be making a run for it.

***

They had their instructions. All border control points had been notified, with a long list of names, quite a few wire-photos, and the passport numbers of any suspect who had one. In the case of Monsieur Boitard, if he was heading for the airport, the detectives would wait until he had purchased a ticket and then arrest him before he could board an airplane.

They would grab the vehicle and the chauffer at that time as well.

In the case of a private aircraft, this process would be bypassed, in which case airport security would be manning all gates onto the field. They would be checking license numbers and ID. There would also be two cars and four officers right on their tails.

The same went for seaports, train stations, and border control points all over France.

Over at the Société Générale, where the Monsieur was general manager of the premier Paris location of the bank, officers weren’t arresting anyone. Not just yet.

Detectives would be questioning anyone who had access to the reserve. The regular daily cash, including yesterday’s receipts and tomorrow’s cash drawers, made up overnight, all set for the bank tellers in the morning, these were only a part of the picture.

What they were really interested in was the gold reserves…what they were really interested in was the tunnel. Which would have to be there somewhere, probably right at the back, in the farthest corner from the door of the reserve vault. With security guards in the building overnight, the actual work would have to be done as quickly and quietly as possible…with a good forty metres of digging up from the catacombs which were under the city, and almost completely unknown to most of its citizens.

The number of employees that had access were very small, two or three at most, and it was the sort of thing where they were never alone. Boitard, and the assistant manager, and never more than one other employee would go into the reserve vault. Every instance would be documented according to their information, provided by an old friend of Maintenon’s. Legitimate shipments would be undertaken by a separate armoured-security company, who would have their own controls and protocols. Those people would be closely supervised.

Roger Desjarlais was a financial consultant, a forensic accountant, and an expert witness in certain court cases. Usually on the side of the prosecution, but not exclusively. Not all cases were criminal. There were plenty of civil suits, and his expertise was in demand, to the extent his own trading activities had taken a back seat although he still had a seat on the bourse, otherwise known as the Compagnie des Agents de Change.

In a case like this, he was working for the police, and the information was usually pretty good. The old adage, suivez l’argent, follow the gold, still held true, and Roger was very, very good at it.

Gold reserves, movements of gold reserves, were something special in that it didn’t happen every day. The nation itself owned a good chunk of those reserves, and the banks had to maintain not only liquidity for day-to-day operations, but also to back up all those mortgages, loans and bonds. The nation, the state itself, had to fulfill its own obligations, and that took both cash flow and reserves for those rainy days, which came along often enough. All those international transfers of money, had to be based on something—according to Desjarlais, actual transfers of gold bars were relatively rare. If an Italian bank transferred ownership of significant gold, in coin or bullion, they simply gave up the share of gold that they owned—gold that was, by convention, already safely in the customer’s hands, what with it being locked up in a vault in their own bank.

It was largely a paper transaction, more of an accounting maneuver than actually shifting stuff around in armoured trucks. Which did happen, from time to time. Someone had to bring the gold from the mines and the refiners, after all…someone had to transport all those coins and bills from the mint. Someone had to truck bundles of money all over the country, in that sense gold was also trucked around, as regional banks had their own needs, and it dispersed the asset so that it wasn’t all kept in one place. It was legal to own gold in France, and it was legal to purchase gold bullion or gold coins, unlike some other countries, including the United States.

A good bit of that gold ended up in other countries, places where demand outstripped supply, and where it could be sold at a premium, and hence, a profit. The exit of gold from the country was always some cause for concern. That went about double when it had been stolen in the first place—

And gold, as everybody knew, was untraceable.

It was a combination of brain-storming, but also barnstorming to a certain extent, in the sense that they didn’t have all the facts and didn’t quite know what to expect.

A car with uniformed officers would be attending at the home of Monsieur Boitard’s mistress, whose name, even now, had not been confirmed.

“The time to interview the lady is right now. While she’s still upset. We can’t give her too much time to think, and even now, she must still feel some loyalty to the Monsieur.”

A man like that would have offered a little money, made a few promises, which he would not be able to keep, and as far as anyone knew, she was uninvolved in the criminal activities. Which seemed likely enough, and reality would eventually catch up to her.

“I agree, Gilles.” Roger went over to the radio in order to give the instructions himself; they had a few cars standing by for just such an event. “Car one-six-two, stand by for instructions…”

“Roger that—er, Roger, sir. Car one-six-two ready for instructions.” A couple of people from Inspector Martin’s unit, and not without their own sense of humour. “Angie’s got the pen and notebook, go ahead, sir.”

Roger read off the address, in case they’d missed it in the radio traffic. They were mostly all on the one frequency, but it would not be unheard-of for someone to drop out to another frequency, just to keep contact with their partner vehicle.

Louise Boitard had taken a taxi and gone out the night before. Victor Baille had been picked up, at his own front door and after dropping Louise off, the cab shared although they had arrived separately to a cozy little bistro in Montmartre.

He was in a cell, and Gilles would interview him when time permitted.

In the meantime, there was a lot going on all at once—

It was unbelievable, but there had been a tunnel in the back of a walk-in freezer at the Hemingway Room. That one connected to the sewer system, and officers would be going down there with lights and maps and hard-hats, looking for the other end, the connection to the bank. The freezer, ostensibly out of service, and waiting an interminable time for spare parts to arrive, including the compressor unit, or so it was being said by one of the more low-level suspects…Monsieur Auguste, who was singing like a lark, but who unfortunately didn’t seem to know all that much...at least not so far.

It was terribly difficult to believe that Faubert, and Fritz, didn’t know all about that one.

Sooner or later, someone with a sense of self-preservation would talk…someone that actually knew something.

In the meantime, they waited.

***

It had been one hell of a long morning, with a quick lunch sent in, and an even longer afternoon…

The phone rang and Roger snapped it up.

“Yes?” He listened, intently. “Thank you. Very well.”

He put it down.

“Okay. Monsieur Sylvain Duquesne has been picked up at the Italian border. They say he had one suitcase, and a couple of grand, all in small bills. Interestingly, he had a big bag of coins, like he smashed the piggy bank and just got the hell out of town.”

“Ah.”

“Anyhow, they’ll put him on a train with a couple of officers and he will be back here in a couple of days.”

Boitard. Don't mind me, I'm just on my way to Portugal...

“Hmn.”

As for Monsieur Boitard and the chauffeur, once they’d left the city and gone out of range of the radios, they would be relying on officers stopping along the way and phoning in reports. For this reason, there were now three cars following them, and also for this reason, smaller regional and municipal police detachments were being alerted along several projected routes just in case something went terribly wrong. To say they would be watched was an understatement.

As for where they were going, it was anybody’s guess, either Marseille, where they might find a ship, or possibly Spain and even Portugal.

This might have been in their original plan, rather than turning the other way and bolting straight for Germany, as Maintenon had initially figured.

They might be in for one hell of a long night, maybe even a very long weekend.

As for the two bodies found under the tarpaulin in the so-called Boitard vault, right beside a big stack of crates, full of gold bars, and seventeen bags of gold coins to go along with that, the odds were they had found Joachim and Carlo. 

It would take some time to confirm that, but bodies were bodies and charges of homicide would be forthcoming no matter who they turned out to be. Not stabbed, they’d been knocked on the head and strangled with a cord found nearby or so it appeared. This implied at least two suspects…the job would have been a bit much for a lone killer.

Such charges were bargaining chips for most of their suspects. What they really wanted was the full story—and the right guys.

Joachim and Carlo, in Maintenon’s estimation, were the only ones who knew for sure where the gold was, in terms of the kitchen detail. They might have even done the digging. His surmise, was that they had pulled up behind the house, in a small lorry, at the crack of dawn, and simply let themselves in with a copy of the key. 

Any neighbour across the way would simply think it was coal, or firewood, sacks of potatoes and crates of champagne, or any number of things being delivered. They had outlived their usefulness and they knew too much.

And other than that, dead men tell no tales—


END


Previous Episodes. 

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six





















A little money, and promises he can't keep.










His audiobook, Dead Reckoning, the tenth in the Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series, is free from Google Play.




Thank you for reading.
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Monday, 18 May 2026

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










Louis Shalako



Pelletier came walking in. He’d just been somewhere else, but Gilles didn’t have time to wrack his mind over just where that was.

“Ah—Édouard. Just the man I wanted to see.”

“Sir?”

“Is the car out front? I want you to take Hermione and see if you can find Alain Garreau.”

“Yes, sir.” He looked around.

“I think she’s just gone to the bathroom. She knows what it’s about. It’s good experience for both of you, and hopefully you can get back before quitting time…”

“Okay. Ah, are Firmin and Janine having any luck?”

They’d staked out the Boitard residence the previous evening, but the Madame had stayed home. If she really was having some kind of a relationship with Victor, it would just be a matter of time…and in any case, now they knew he was back in town, they could put some thought into another city-wide bulletin.

“Not so far. Firmin is following Genovy for the time being. Janine’s off somewhere. In a case like this, people can forgo overtime pay by taking a few hours off during their regular shift. Quite frankly, that’s up to her—she’s not all that familiar with the routine around here, either.”

Firmin knew the routine, and while not exactly known as an overtime-hog, he knew enough to take it when he could. As for sleep, and the family life, that was his problem and no one else’s.

Gilles unwrapped the remains of his sandwich. Someone had been thoughtful enough to do that for him—they really were a pretty good bunch. While the edges of the bread were beginning to dry out, it was still good and he was still hungry.

Looking over, he could see that Édouard was pouring out two cups of mostly-fresh coffee.

Another thoughtful one—

Which was a very good thing, sometimes.

***

He’d given them a two-minute briefing. Gilles picked up the phone and dialled a familiar number, now that those two were on their way.

In an odd moment, he was completely alone in the room, and his eyes swept the place as he waited for the call to be answered.

Fuck.

It really was the end of an era, and the general slovenliness of the room stood in stark contrast to their new digs—

“Hello? Criminal Records and Archives. Constable Bazin speaking.”

“Ah, yes, Constable. Inspector Maintenon of the Special Homicide Unit speaking. I wonder if you could do me a favour.”

“I would be delighted. So, what’s up, Inspector.”

“I was wondering if we had any kind of a map of the catacombs here in Paris. I’m also interested in the sewer system.” Parts of which went back to Roman times, and much of which, even now, went back to medieval times…and some of it had probably been built yesterday.

“The other thing is, we need them in the largest possible scale, and a street map of a similar scale…”

The other thing was, that the sewers and catacombs, tunneling in general; had been used before in the commission of certain types of crime—breaking into banks and museums and the like, even an occasional wine-cellar. A man like Bazin would know that, and see the significance without prompting…

Bazin: let's see if he's any good...

“We don’t need maps for the entire city.” Just the ones from the area of The Hemingway Room, and if his hunch was right, the area of the bank.

The two places weren’t that far away from each other, and it was on the same side of the river, which was an important point. Sewers went to the river, and not under it.

And.

If Bazin was to be of help at all, or if he was to be any good at all, a bit of explanation might go a long way.

The Boitard residence was quite a long ways away from either of those two locations, and it was too much of a stretch—surely one couldn’t count on going too many kilometres across town, and all of it through the sewers. Yet he couldn’t really say for sure, either.

Not without those maps.

Bazin might even have some ideas on that one. Consulting his notes, Gilles reeled off the street addresses and relevant arrondissements.

“Did you get all of that?”

“Absolutely. I will get right on that. It may take a little time, but not too long—” The voice faded out and then came back again. “That would be in our reference and research materials…”

“That’s okay, Constable. Ah, do you think you will be able to bring that up this afternoon? I’m kind of stuck in the office here anyways, and there is this one other small matter I would like to discuss.”

“Give me fifteen minutes, sir. Half an hour, and I will see what we have.” Also, they might have some external sources, the library, the universities, the archaeology department or even the Church, in the case of the catacombs…Bazin seemed to have plenty of ideas and that was good.

“I can ask no more. We shall see you then, Constable.”

“Yes, sir. I will be there with bells on.”

As far as little sayings went, Gilles had never heard that one before. It might have had something to do with reindeer, or possibly belly-dancers; a kind of unfortunate mental picture. Be that as it may—

There was an unopened envelope on the corner of Pelletier’s desk. It was from the lab.

Ah. More soil samples, or so it would seem. There was another envelope under that one, but he could only do one thing at a time.

Slipping out the one thin sheet, he settled in to read that one…

***

“Ah, Andre.”

The younger man stood just inside the door, ridding himself of hat and jacket. The shirt was damp under the armpits and wearing a vest and a tie and a shoulder holster didn’t help much either.

Maintenon tossed down the report.

“I’ve just made fresh coffee—I don’t know how welcome that is, right now.” When they got the new room, they’d have a refrigerator and they could have a few bottles of cold soda in there, milk, juice, the like.

“Uh-huh.”

He turned.

“So, what’s up? Shit. It’s like we haven’t had much of a chance to catch up.” He looked around. “Looks like a nice, quiet day, anyways.”

“Oh, God.”

Andre understood the wry tone. Gilles didn’t like being cooped up any more than anyone else. And if was hotter than hell on the sidewalk down below, it wasn’t much better up here, and this was with two overhead fans going…

Gilles sat as Andre filled a cup and spooned in sugar. He gave it a thorough stir, spoon clinking pleasantly in the cup.

“So, what’s up. For one thing, the soil samples from the little herb garden behind the Boitard residence do not match the soil samples from any of the shoes seized from the Boitard residence. Not even the cook’s shoes. Ah, but the sample we took, right by the wall there, on top of the so-called vault…according to the analysis, they share great similarities with the sample from one pair of shoes in particular. Those belong to Monsieur Boitard. And as usual, it doesn’t prove a damned thing.”

“Huh!” Andre nodded along. “The first thing the defense will claim is that it was a frame-up, and that the foot-prints are clearly fake anyways—taking our own conclusion and turning it right back on us. That part is predictable enough.”

“Exactly.”

“Here’s the thing, Gilles. What kind of burglar goes out back, grabs some dirt, goes in the kitchen, mixes up a bowl of crud, paints that on shoes, which would have to come from either the old man’s bedroom, or the front hall maybe…I mean, seriously, it’s just too much, and one wonders at the mind that came up with that one.” This with Jardine’s little suite right there.

“Ah, yes. That mind—” Gilles paused, eyes going far, far away for a long moment. “Yes. The sort of mind that could conceive of something like this. Interesting…”

And the eyes drifted off into infinity again, and with a little shake of the head, Andre found his own seat and set the cup down. He reached for the briefcase.

“…and then there’s the Hemingway Room case…”

Andre opened up his briefcase, very, very quietly. If he knew anything about that look, The Boss was well on his way, and he was going somewhere or other.

The big question was where.

Gilles suddenly spoke in a dreamy tone, as if still not quite of this world.

“Why would old man Boitard, be out there tramping around in the mud in the first place. He really doesn’t seem the type, even if it’s his own kids playing out there.” He bit his lip and looked more alert now. “I’m waiting for Constable Bazin…incidentally.”

“Ah. That sounds like a good idea.” Just a gentle psychological nudge, which did work sometimes.

“Huh? Oh. Yes—” A quick grin of understanding, and then he was off again.

Detective Andre Levain.

***

It was a bright and shiny morning, with the dew still glittering on the grass and weeds.

“All right, ladies and gentlemen. The time has come, to rip this case wide open.”

A half a dozen officers, some in uniform and some not, stood around three cars lined up in the alley behind the Boitard residence. A cable-operated steam shovel had been brought in as well as the skilled labour to operate it, and a couple of manual workers stood around, leaning on their shovels waiting for the finer work.

The pair had dug down just far enough to expose the reinforced concrete slabs across the vault, or ramp, whichever one cared to call it. A feature of such slabs was the longitudinal holes going their length. This allowed the workers to insert long steel rods with a ring on the outer end. The next step was to hook heavy steel cables to the pair of rods now set in the end. It looked like they were ready for the first lift.

But first, a word from Bazin.

“Okay. In the old days, the ramp would have been protected by wooden doors and padlocks, with relatively tight joints. That was mostly to keep it from flooding in heavy rain, and I would expect there will be a drain right there at the base of the ramp. This would be the lowest part of the entire cellar. You can see the marks where the wooden frame was bolted to the outside wall. The doors would have been sloped, just like many another cellar entrance, and that was to shed rain and snow.” Bazin had done some research, and it all seemed logical enough. “Now, we don’t believe the vault or the cellar are somehow connected to the sewers or catacombs in any other way, but we will be inspecting them very carefully…”

Gilles nodded, and Bazin trailed off.

“So. According to Alain Garreau, there were a few items in there when he went to build the wall. An old bicycle, a broken-down wheelbarrow with a flat tire. He and Rolly did ask, Jardine and not Boitard, whether to pull that stuff out before building the wall. With the slabs on top, there was just no way once the wall was built. According to Alain, Jardine shrugged it off, and since the Boitards were so very obviously rich, they didn’t think too much about it. It was none of their business, but they did think they should ask. So. They just went ahead and did it. Also, Alain mentioned some old planks, leaning up against a wall, and some debris and miscellaneous objects which appeared to be under an old canvas tarpaulin. Again, Jardine said it was just junk and never mind it. It was too much work and just a bunch of junk, so. Just go ahead and do the work because Madame and the cook were complaining about mice and insects again.” Gilles turned to the figure seated at the controls of the steam-shovel.

He gave a thumbs-up signal, and the chugging engine went up a few revs as the man swung the lifting hook into position and the workers got the cables through the ends of the rods…

There was a wrench, a kind of sucking sound as the slab broke free of the remaining earth and lifted a few centimetres.

The machine, going into reverse, began dragging and rotating the slab and then, when the hole was clear, pausing while officers went to the edge of the hole. There was the top of a concrete ramp, just as advertised. They watched as workers dragged a baulk of timber and slid it under the end of the slab.

As soon as they had the rods and cables clear, it would be time for the next lift and so they all stepped back again.

“How much do you want to bet?” Back to Jardine again, and they’d been following the same trail of breadcrumbs all along—

Andre and Pelletier, standing there at either shoulder, just shrugged.

“Not on your life. I still need all my money.” Pelletier—

Andre chuckled, but then he’d learned the hard way from Gilles. He told the young man as much…

Gilles nodded at that one.

Poor Bazin was eyeing Hermione’s form from behind, with unfeigned interest, but one could hardly blame the man for that.

He had, after all, done it himself.



END


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