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

"...more fucking pigs, I just know it..." (Image Credit)

Louis Shalako

By the time Gilles and the constable got out of the room, the overcast and the damp air had lowered, with the sky closing in, and with a distant mist hovering in between the spires and the rooftops. Even now, there were a few yellowing leaves amongst the green, on the trees along the boulevards, and yet summer still had much life left in it.

Sooner or later, it would almost have to rain. In the meantime, it was just as sticky, and as usual, the place was halfway across town.

The restaurant was known as the Hemingway Room, in the well-known Hotel Saint-Émilion.

As to whether Hemingway had ever actually been in there, no one could say for sure, one way or another—and it wasn’t the only place in town claiming such an association.

It was mostly just legend, maybe even pure bullshit at this point.

Parking just down the street, Édouard beckoned a passing gendarme, in what was a stroke of real luck as this was a no-parking zone. All he had to do was to mention Maintenon’s name and the officer was only too willing, not only to overlook the infraction, but to keep his benevolent eye on the machine as well. He’d grab a table at the adjacent sidewalk café, have a smoke-break and take a load off those aching feet. It was just about break time anyways, or so he said.

With a word to Gilles, they left the little vent-wing windows open and the driver’s side window down a couple of centimetres, about all they could do in the oppressive heat to keep the interior as cool as possible…there was a glow to the clouds in the south, and if the sun actually did come out, it would be stifling indeed by the time they got back.

Once inside the building, the maître d scuttled on over, having recognized the great Maintenon without prompting. The significance of the fact that Édouard was in uniform, clutching a notebook even, seemed to have escaped him for the moment.

“Inspector Maintenon! What an honour. How wonderful to see you, alive, and well and in the flesh…sir. And what an amazing story! Truth really is stranger than fiction, or so they say. So. How may we please you today.” He stood there beaming, the one-eyed glance to the left slid up and down Pelletier again, the eyes re-focused and the look slowly faded. “Oh. Naturally, sir, I understand you are, er, working.”

In a look that was almost furtive, he glanced at another party, five or six of them, coming in the door. This would not do, with cops in the building and the lunch crowd hungry for fulfilment. Not to mention, the average customer was all eyes and ears and wagging tongues. And certain matters were best left forgotten—avoided like the plague. Touching the young constable on the elbow, he led them off to one side.

“The kitchen doors are right there beside the bar, Inspector. And that door over there leads to the office area. Constable. Naturally, I am available to answer questions as well…simply ask for Monsieur Beaudoin.”

“Thank you.”

And with that, the gentleman turned away, clasping his hands up high, in a servile manner and with obsequiousness written all over him. He made a little half-bow.

“…bonjour, Mesdames et Messieurs…bienvenu dans la salle Hemingway…”

There were two pairs of doors, with small windows set up high and swung on double-sprung hinges so that they could open in or out, depending on the direction of traffic and bearing in mind serving staff hurrying to and fro, with heavily-laden trays, and not too many hands free, or the rather decorative serving carts that they saw interspersed here and there among the tables. Even as they stepped in through the right-hand door, the left-hand door burst open and another waiter in black trousers and wine-coloured jacket pushed a cart out the other way.

The intervening space of two to three metres was meant to keep the noise down, as they realized, the volume of kitchen noise going up exponentially between one set of doors and the next…it was even worse after the next door.

It could be described as bedlam, or perhaps merely as a dull roar.

They stood there, hastily shuffling off to one side as yet another cart, replete with silver-domed serving dishes and glittering glassware was pushed along and out the first door. The load was closely followed by a man with champagne in a bucket and dragging a wrought-iron stand to put it in, the ice clinking in the bucket making its own statement. With the hallway coming in on the right side of the room, everything seemed to go from left to right in a kind of assembly-line process. There was another cart in the process of being loaded at a station directly in front of them. There were people slapping things down and pushing those plates along…push them along, push them along. Behind that, across from where they stood, another hallway led, presumably, to freezers, pantries and the back door and such. Surely there would be a wine cellar around somewhere as well…

It wasn’t just loud in there, it was busy indeed, with people calling back and forth, a veritable frenzy of activity and then, someone slapped a bell, the meals having been plated, and another server stepped forward to load all of that onto another cart. Servers were in a kind of burgundy-red and black, kitchen staff mostly in white smocks with street clothes underneath…chop, chop, chop, slice, slice, slice, crockery and utensils clanging, and smoke rising, and an ineffable smell wafting its way throughout.

Having grabbed himself another notebook, virginal in its integrity, the younger man flipped it open to a list of names.

“Well. Let’s see if we can figure out who’s who—and who’s what.”

A tall, slender black man, talking over some kid’s shoulder on the grille detachment, fish or something, looked up and then looked cross.

“Hey! You two. Who in the hell are you.”

Their eyes met, and shoulders moved in a mutual shrug.

“…more fucking pigs, I just know it…”

Throwing down a crisp white towel in disgust, he turned and headed their way.

“Huh. All right, gentlemen.” Crooking an imperious finger, he turned and headed for a door at the far end.

This would almost have to be Fritz himself, and if the culinary critics and lifestyle magazines knew anything at all, he was the very devil himself when it came to his cooking. A naturalized Swiss citizen, Cordon Bleu chef with any number of awards and a row of little forks or was it stars in the Michelin guide, he would be anything but shy or insecure. An orphan, and adopted as a very small boy by missionary parents in West Africa, he’d had to overcome something of an inferiority complex, with no looking back—at least to hear him tell it.

As for interpersonal relationships, he wasn’t exactly known for his tact, and that was straight out of Le Monde. He also had a wife and two kids, which took some small stretch of the imagination.

But.

Perhaps this was what it took, not just to survive, but to thrive in the white man’s world.

Any satisfaction he might have taken in bossing around a bunch of white people, une bande de foutu francais, would surely be leavened by pressure, by time, and by the expectations of all round him. That would include whoever signed the checks around there, and in fact there was a stack of time-sheets on one corner of the desk—this week’s pay-packets yet to be made up, and in order to do that, someone had to keep track of everything—literally, everything.

***

Monsieur Maissen, Fritz to friend and foe alike, more normally preferred going by the one name, in fact; and in time, he’d probably have his own establishment with his name on the sign. It was almost as if he was apologizing for having the job in the first place, or maybe it was the kind of dream that must be declared; and to all and sundry. Anyone who would listen, probably. He seemed to have a plan, visualized extensively in his head. All that really took, was time, money, (and lots of it), and reputation. Of more immediate concern, and something of a relief was the fact he had his own little cubby-hole, one with a desk, a door and a couple of chairs for them.

Maybe he was just nervous—

As for the noise, it was somewhat less but still something of a presence on the other side of that door.

Sitting there, with just the faintest suggestion of cool air coming in through the overhead ventilators, Constable Pelletier was going through his list of names, compiled from all of those other reports. Again, quite some time had gone by, before the originating officers had sort of tossed in the towel and handed off the case to anyone who would take it—

Gilles had noted that cool air coming in, although it seemed to be barely working considering these were the back rooms, with grilles and ranges and ovens all going full blast, and then there would be the heat coming off the backs of freezers and refrigerators. The modern customer expected better than that and up front it was quite the cool oasis from the heat.

“Okay. It seems we have about half the people here today, of those who were in the kitchen on the day of the, er, incident.”

Fritz nodded.

“That sounds about right.” Now that they were behind closed doors, some of the arrogance had evaporated.

“According to the lab reports, that was real human blood.”

“Oh, indeed.” That was it, and nothing more—

“I mean, it’s something of a mystery, don’t you agree?”

“Yes, of course, Constable.”

The man sat there, and then, more or less patiently, went on.

“Well.” Some worked the weekends and were consequently off shift on this Tuesday morning.

One or two had called in sick, one had quit, and some wouldn’t be coming in until later, working the afternoon shift. Early weekday mornings were the slowest, and they didn’t even really open until eleven anyways.

“We won’t keep you too long, Monsieur. If you don’t mind, perhaps we can use your office, and call them in, one at a time, just to go over their previous statements…a few questions perhaps. Hopefully, maybe someone has something to add—that very often happens, and of course we would like to keep disruption to the minimum.”

“Very well.”

“Okay, then. So, my first question is, do you do the hiring here?”

“Ah. Well, yes and no.”

“…yes and no?”

“People put in applications and resumes. The boss has a big stack of them in a drawer. By the time we get around to calling them, we’re lucky if one in ten is still available. Look. If it’s just a dishwasher, I don’t really care to know who that is or what the background is. Naturally, I know the name of every person in my kitchen, I have to. But really, it’s only the sous-chefs that I care about or even have much input as to the hiring. A pastry chef, he’d damned well better know his business, if someone’s grilling the shish-kebabs or making up the sauces, they’d damned well better be good at it. Monsieur Faubert, my boss, doesn’t necessarily have that level of expertise—in order to be able to judge, don’t you know.” The proof of the cook was in the tasting, as he put it.

It might be Faubert’s restaurant, but it was Fritz’s kitchen. His standards and his expectations were extremely high.

(Vista)

“Okay. That seems logical, in that you would have the last word on senior staff members. So, would you know if any of the staff under you, er, have any sort of criminal record?”

“What? Oh, probably. I mean—over the years, and sometimes they just slip through the cracks. I imagine Monsieur Faubert checks them out fairly well, insofar as it is possible to do so. Understand, gentlemen, someone slicing carrots or rolling pastry dough isn’t really in a position to do much harm. As long as they’re doing their jobs, and not incidentally, washing their hands about fifty times a day. That’s really all I care with some of them. They’re not handling cash, they’re not in charge of the pantry or receiving deliveries…other than a job, it’s hard to see what they might gain, ah, if they had…any real criminal intent.” He gave them a withering smile. “Sometimes, the only difference between a man and a derelict…is a job.”

“And what can you tell us about the alleged victims, er, Carlo and Joachim?”

He shrugged.

“Nothing that I haven’t said already. Understand, they had been here a while, both of them, but they were basically just doing scut work—peeling potatoes, grating cheese, slicing mushrooms. There was no great skill involved, and that is for sure.”

END

Previous Episodes.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

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

One hell of a long day.

Louis Shalako

Unlocking the door to his own flat was both novel and as old as time itself, or so it felt.

The housekeeper, whose name he hadn’t been able to recall, was long since gone, not that one could blame her under the circumstances of the time. Three stiffs in a deep freeze would have been more than enough. It might take some time to find another one, not that he was in any kind of a hurry.

Flipping the switch, it would appear they had electricity—finally. There was the smell of gas in the air from the pilot light on the stove, and underlying that, a weekend spent with nothing but candles for lighting. What the hell, the phone might even work. Things were looking up, and no more roughing it in the bushes, as people said. Without heat, light, and power, it was just another bad campsite—admittedly, one with a dozen good eateries within a six-block radius.

With a bag of groceries under one arm, he bent and picked up Sylvestre in his wire cat-carrier, and entered the old familiar space. Not exactly police business, and he had taken a cab over to LeBref’s place. He could always turn in the receipt and hope for the best.

Once the door was closed, he opened up the carrier and sat on the spindle chair by the door to pull the laces and kick off the shoes. The cat, suspicious indeed after recent events, stayed in the carrier.

“It’s all right, Sylvestre; we are home at last. And—I have a little treat…”

Setting the bag down on the kitchen counter, he began pulling stuff out, a baguette, fresh carrots, and a dozen eggs just for starters. Spaghetti noodles, a tin of sauce. A tin of sardines, three or four of them in fact…Sylvestre, unaccustomed to being abandoned, adopted by strangers, lugged around in alien contraptions at a moment’s notice, had his nose at the hole, but the animal clearly had reservations. Gilles grinned as the cat sniffed the air, wondering. He pulled out the last few things, bacon, cognac, cigars, tinned fruit.

“Oh, yes, my fine furred fellow, you are surely going to love this…”

Gilles opened the cupboard and found a bowl and wiped out a thin film of dust. Pulling a drawer, he found a butter knife…using the attached metal key, he found the little metal tab on the tin. Giving the key a twist, there came a characteristic snap as air entered the hermetically-sealed canister of paper-thin metal and at that point, Sylvestre decided this might be his long-lost Maintenon after all. The animal came out, still a little hesitant, still sniffing the air as if confronted by some weird air of unreality, but come out to investigate he did. And it was well—

He pried a couple of oily, silvery fish out of the tin and poured some of the juice over it.

Gilles set the bowl on the floor in the usual place. A bowl of water came next. Ears well back, and with one eye on the oddly-familiar man in this rather strange yet sort of familiar kitchen, Sylvestre put his face down and had another good sniff. Quietly, with a minimum of fuss, bother, and above all, noise, Gilles proceeded to put a few things away, including a couple of bottles of cold beer.

It was only then, that he remembered to take his hat off, and to hang up his jacket. The socks would be okay for a while. As for the tie, that could go, and right now, and he stuffed that into the jacket pocket to be dealt with later.

Tentatively, Sylvestre tasted it with the tongue and then decided this might be all right after all.

Sylvestre: not too sure about this guy...

“Hmn.” And now, what in the hell am I supposed to eat—

That was one very good question, but if nothing else he could put the carrots away. He cut a few slices off the baguette and buttered them up, setting them on a small plate on the table. He pulled the cork from a bottle of white from the refrigerator. Poured himself half a glass—there wasn’t much left in there and he might as well finish it off. Any excuse will do, sometimes.

It would give him time to think.

Other than that, he was damned tired after one full day at work, and his thoughts returned to early retirement.

And just exactly how boring that might be—

It was also time to open up a few windows and turn on the fans.

***

It was almost predictable. Over-stimulated, as his mother might have said once-upon-a-time. His head was a jumble of thoughts, all competing for attention, all of them demanding some resolution, right now, and not later when it would be so much more practical.

Six o’clock in the fucking morning, unable to sleep, with thoughts of coffee and cigarettes dancing in his head. That, and the job, or jobs, ahead. It had been too much, that and a bit of a full bladder more than enough to convince.

Poor old Gilles had tossed and turned half the night, and not the good half either—fact was, he’d woken up at two-thirty a.m., and although he’d had the odd little dream-fragment after that, it was like he’d barely slept at all. It was like dreaming when you weren’t quite asleep after all—and as soon as you realized what was going on, you were right back to reality again.

“Argh.”

He couldn’t really blame the cat either. Sylvestre had come to bed with him under some slight protest, carried all the way in from the front room. After settling in for a while, right in between Maintenon’s legs in their irritating and universal cat-fashion, he’d been gone when Gilles woke up the first time.

There was the question of what he would be wearing today, and then he needed a shit, a shave and a shower…after that, a minimal breakfast and at least one coffee. One coffee and half a dozen cigarettes…

With Sergeant Simard firmly in their corner, and having granted Pelletier’s request, they had agreed that the young man and the car would be at his doorstep at seven-thirty on the dot.

Glancing at the clock, Gilles figured the bugger would do it, too, and maybe even be a little bit early. And if that were true, and it probably would be—

He’d better get a move on, and now here was Sylvestre, no doubt wondering about breakfast himself.

***

For the time being, the other detectives would be handling things, but then they’d been doing it for the last two months under Andre Levain and Inspector Delorme, brought in to replace him when Gilles went missing. While Gilles had the three cases, Pelletier had none, and that left him free enough for the time being.

What that meant, was that Maintenon and young Pelletier could simply sit there in the room, read reports, drink coffee, smoke in Gilles’ case at least, and knocking a few ideas around.

It was all part of the training—

Just reading, had consumed a couple of hours right off, considering Pelletier had to wade through all of the stuff Gilles had already read; whereas Gilles only had Pelletier’s stuff to read, and admittedly, to compare with that which had gone before.

At some point, Édouard had politely inquired, and then headed off for the restroom.

Maintenon picked up the phone. He’d get an appointment with Roger, and then they’d get right into it again.

END

Previous Episodes.

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Google play in ebook and audio.

Here is Dead Reckoning, the tenth in the Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery Series, available from Amazon.

See his works on ArtPal.

Thank you for reading.

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

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Louis has books and stories available from Amazon.

For those who prefer audiobooks, every title on Google Play has its corresponding audiobook.

See his works on ArtPal.

Thank you for reading.

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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