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| 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
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