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

Acting Sergeant Pelletier.

Louis Shalako

It was seven-thirty, bang on the nose, and here was the car, waiting on the doorstep.

“Careful, please, sir.”

Sliding in on the passenger side, Gilles had seen the white pasteboard box, but any hesitation was momentary as Édouard reached over, and pulled it in a little closer to his hip. Gilles slid over a little further, and snapped on the belt. The briefcase could go on the floor, standing upright beside his right calf. The other was wearing a pretty decent brown suit, rather than a uniform, as agreed the day before, and those shoes had been spit-shined to say the least.

“Ah, that’s better.” He didn’t even have to ask—as for mere talk, it was early and it could wait as far as he was concerned.

“Beignes. For everyone, good personal politics as you might say.” Édouard eased out the clutch and took her up a few notches before snapping it into second gear.

“You’re darned right it is.” Gilles grinned at his own cheerful tone, which had surprised him.

“Don’t you worry, sir. I got plenty of the strawberry-filled ones…” He turned and winked. “You know me, sir—always thinking.”

Maintenon laughed outright. The kid had either been listening, or he was pretty good at reconnaissance work in his own right. It was always good to know a little something about the people around you—and he’d only been there about three days.

It spoke well for the future.

“And I really have been thinking. This is all so new to me…quite a shock to the system, in fact.”

“Yes, well. We do have a little time—just keep your eyes on the road, that’s all I ask.”

“Yes, sir.” Still, he couldn’t quite help taking an interest in yet another pretty girl, nicely dressed and stepping smartly along on her way to work, most likely.

This was only the third one so far.

So, youth hadn’t been completely wasted on the young—not so far, anyways.

“So. You were thinking.”

“Ah. Yes, sir. Ah—for one thing. As a kind of VIP driver, I’ve driven any number of senior officers. Including Roger, sir, quite a number of times. And it occurred to me that Roger might have his own instincts…”

“Of course, but. What do you mean?”

The kid gnawed on his lip for a moment, chewing on a bit of loose skin, and navigating a left turn through a busy intersection, the light yellow and it had been for some time…they made it through and no harm done.

“I mean. Did you pick through a pile of files, and select that three for any particular reason? Why would you do that. Why those three files. Or were those three files, and no others, simply handed to you as a group. I’m not suggesting any, er, ulterior motive. Perhaps not even a conscious motive. But, what if something about those particular cases triggered something, perhaps even something deep in the subconscious mind. I really don’t know that much about it. I got it out of a book, to be honest. But the Commissioner isn’t exactly stupid. Otherwise, he never would have gotten there in the first place.” Roger would have to have, a pretty good set of instincts of his own. “Why those three files and no others.”

“That much is true.” And now it was Maintenon’s turn to gnaw on a lip for a while. “It’s an interesting thought, and that is for sure.”

Especially at this time of the morning. It was also true that Gilles had been off for a while, and Roger had had a whole bunch of files on his desk, files that must be dealt with, one way or another, files looking for some kind of a resolution. Those three cases had been a package deal, or so it seemed.

“We’ll let our subconscious minds work on that. I have some other ideas as well.”

“Ideas are good, Édouard.”

This bought him a quick grin, but they were there. Gilles clambered out, and Édouard would come up after he’d found somewhere discreet to put the car.

“Don’t forget the doughnuts, sir.”

Until it was official, he wasn’t leaving the vehicle anywhere near the garage area, indoors or out, or they’d never get it back. While he had the keys, naturally there were spares, on a rack up on the wall in Simard’s office. And out of sight, out of mind. As for the doughnuts, and a briefcase, it was a tad awkward but no doubt, Gilles would find a way. Someone would almost surely hold the door for him…

“Sir!”

Maintenon sighed, returning the few steps to the open side window.

“Why don’t you call me Gilles, everybody else does.”

“Here’s another one. What if Roger actually knows something? Information that, possibly, we don’t need to know? Perhaps something that he can’t divulge to us, perhaps something where he doesn’t want to impose an opinion, or to poison our minds? He doesn’t want us to go in with too many pre-conceived notions. He is, very much, political—maybe he’s looking for something more, something a little more objective—” Perhaps.

“Hmn. But how the hell would I know?” Or any of them, really.

Anyways, it was time he was getting upstairs before the beignes got stale; and Édouard needed to get moving as well.

Still.

Édouard had a very good mind, in that he was always thinking.

It was also a very thorough mind, of a sort Gilles had come to appreciate.

Other than that, what in the hell was he getting at—

Fuck.

***

It was time to get serious. It was time to call in some help, dig a little deeper, and expend a few resources, otherwise they weren’t getting anywhere and that much would appear to be obvious.

Édouard had taken his girlfriend, Martine, to the cinema the evening before. They’d seen The Invisible Man, produced years before but still a reliable second feature, which had, in some ineffable but also inevitable fashion had gotten him to thinking. There were parallels, as he put it—not the least of which was the recycling of old tropes.

Mysterious footprints, appearing magically upon a floor, or a rug, and yet not one person had actually been there. Just for example. Alleged dead people, bodies mysteriously missing, for another.

“Okay, so what did you have in mind?” Idly, Gilles dunked a doughnut into his coffee and carefully engaged with it.

“Think about this, er, Gilles. The original officers in the Boitard case. I won’t say it’s obviously an inside job—there are other possibilities. Yet I have found nothing in the notes…they didn’t seem to even consider the possibility. It would have been so easy to open up the closets, check the shoe-racks, check the shoes of all adults, at the very least. If it really was that muddy out, one would think traces of mud, grit, would have been found on someone’s shoes—or not. It doesn’t prove much, but it might rule a few things out. Assuming there were no such traces. And again, what if there were traces, what if anything does that prove. Except that someone had mud on their shoes…also, our killer, possibly, grabbing a pair of shoes out of a closet, used the shoes of an adult male. Did they run outside and look for a mud puddle. Also. Was that pure coincidence? Big feet, big shoes, big dark footprints make a certain impression; that much is true. But was it a more deliberate choice, in the sense that one person in particular might have been targeted. Framed up, as it were—”

“Or maybe somebody really did come in from outside.”

“I have very strong doubts about that, Gilles.”

“No, I agree. But we simply can’t rule it out, not at this point in time.”

Édouard nodded thoughtfully. Simple agreement, or disagreement, wasn’t really their problem. Their problem was evidence, and the various interpretations of it. Those interpretations relied on a set of initial assumptions, if they were to make any sense at all.

He flipped through pages of notes.

“Interestingly, there were no real signs of defensive injuries in terms of the girl—there was no blood, bits of flesh under her fingernails, which were not particularly long, which we might expect. Someone grabs you around the neck and begins to squeeze, it’s only natural to wake up in confusion, and the first thing you’re going to do, is to reach up to the neck area, and try and get those hands off your neck—as often as not, one would think, leaving a few marks on the assailant, and this in spite of long sleeves, a jacket. Those hands would be desperately scrabbling. It occurs to me that pretty much everyone we saw in the household had long sleeves, and I certainly didn’t see marks on necks and faces…”

“Hmn. Interesting.”

“…other than all that, I’m still curious about the Garreau kid. And then there’s that whole Fritz and the kitchen thing. That one’s just plain weird.”

Archambault gave Gilles a little wink. Rising, he gathered his things, snapped the briefcase shut.

“Do you mind, Gilles?” Pelletier turned to the older man, before he could escape. “Detective Archambault. Perhaps you could help us…what would you put in (or on), an application for a search warrant? Regarding the Boitard case?”

Archambault: fill out the form, kid.

Archambault paused, straightened up, and to his eternal credit, gave it a moment of thought.

“Why don’t you just put it in your own words. Say it just the way you told Gilles. And me.” He gave Maintenon an unreadable look. “You won’t know until you try now, will you.”

“Okay. It’s just that I’ve never done one before.”

Archambault, known for a gruff exterior, (but a heart of gold), nodded.

“There’s a first time for everything, anyhow, there are forms in the drawer…there.”

With a sudden charm, he lit up with a quick smile and then he had to get out of there, hand literally on the doorknob.

“I would wish you luck, but I got a funny feeling you won’t need it—and that is an important case, when you consider the name and everything. Thanks for the doughnuts, incidentally.” His eyes came back to Maintenon. “And how much do you want to bet—”

And with that, the door clicked shut behind him.

Not to be outdone, Maintenon spoke.

“Oh—and don’t forget to sign that Acting Sergeant Pelletier.”

END

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