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| 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.
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 16th
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
Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Barnes & Noble in ebook and paperback.
See his works on Fine Art America.
Here is Louis Shalako on Bluesky.
Thank you for reading.
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