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

Cynthie, just an innocent young girl.

Louis Shalako

“Gentlemen. I must protest.” Jardine wasn’t exactly livid with rage, but the cheekbones were getting a little pink and he’d gone rigid, more rigid than normal that is. “Hasn’t this family been through enough? Haven’t we all, been through enough.”

“Yes, Monsieur, I agree. Absolutely. Still, we must do our jobs, eh.”

They’d been admitted politely enough. They had inquired as to the present whereabouts of Monsieur Boitard first and then Madame. They had presented their warrant, which he had refused to even touch; practically putting his hands behind his back—his mouth worked, it was like he wanted to spit or something, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to do it.

Pelletier had given him a brief précis, and all sounding very professional.

“We are counting on your cooperation, Monsieur Jardine.”

The man swallowed and glared at first the one, and then the other—

Turning aside to the table, careful not to knock over the floral arrangement, Pelletier pulled a handful of long white envelopes out of his thin leather dispatch case, all he’d been able to dig up at home on short notice, and then fished around and came up with a good old teaspoon…the only good thing about such a case was the strap around the neck, it was better than leaving it lying around.

“Well, I’ll just get started then—”

Maintenon nodded, addressing Jardine.

“Do not derange yourself, Monsieur. If you wish to consult with Monsieur or Madame Boitard, or perhaps the family counsellor, please feel free to do so…” He held up the offending paperwork. “You’re more than welcome to read it, as a retainer of this household, holding the ship as it were. Naturally, we will not allow this to interfere with our duties under the law and neither will you, sir.”

The proper term was fort, but Gilles was in the mood to prod with this one—pretty much any of them except the children. You could get a lot out of kids, he knew that, but you had to be damned careful as to how you went about it. It wasn’t like he had run out of patience—Maintenon’s patience was legendary. This was simply one of many techniques.

Just one more tool in the toolbox. And the artist is known by his works—

Pelletier was following the plan, and Jardine’s face was a study in shock, anger, perhaps disgust. After labelling an envelope, he’d carefully spooned a couple of scoops of potting soil from an urn near the door and the hall closet. Édouard had carefully sealed that up, inserting it into the case. He made a note, Sample One. Urn by the closet…pure theatre in some ways. He had his patience too.

It could also be effective, sometimes.

“Ah, yes.” He turned to Gilles. “As I recall, there are a few other plants in the house.”

“What about you, Monsieur Jardine. Would you by any chance have any houseplants in your quarters?”

Pelletier had gotten a second sample from the other large urn, over on the other side of the doorway, where tall glass panels as least admitted a little sun when the time of day was right.

Turning, Jardine crooked a finger in the rudest gesture he could manage without actually being profane, (which would be the next finger over), and the young officer followed obediently along, tipping a quick wink at Maintenon on his way out the door.

Other than the other servants, who would be around someplace, probably the kitchen, or working, or in their own quarters with the lady gone, the coast was relatively clear. And Gilles had his own little role to play as well.

He began the long climb up to the girl’s room.

He was lucky. Although he had heard voices from the hallway leading to the kitchen on the way up, and another maid had just been going into a room at the far end as his own eyes cleared the landing, this floor was quiet indeed. Someone had taken down the crime scene seal on the door—stupidly, and he wondered at the nerve sometimes. Yet it must have seemed natural enough to an idiot…or a killer.

"I must protest." One pissed-off butler.

***

Closing the door, he was relieved to see that the room appeared to be relatively undisturbed.

Predictably enough, the bed had been made. He turned back the bedspread and had a look, and was somewhat relieved to see that it appeared to be all the original bedding. Fresh bedding smelled fresh, certainly in a place like this. Not that he expected too many clues there; but there was such a thing as proper form—even for civilians. But this one still smelled like girl…kind of a weird thought but there it was.

For a diary, there were only so many possibilities, although the room was not small, and there was plenty of furniture, even bookshelves, a writing desk, and at least two closets at first glance. First, the small bedside table, which did indeed have drawers…

“Well, I’ll be damned.” And there it was, too.

Hearing some faint noises from the hall, Gilles slid the drawer closed and quickly put the small book into his right-side jacket pocket, pulling out the flaps on both pockets. Odds were, it would be the maid—

The footsteps faded off down the hall. Considering the depths of the carpet even on the children’s floors, whoever that was, they were a heel-walker. A known type, completely oblivious to the rest of the world, especially anyone who had the great misfortune to live on the floor below. That would almost have to be one of the servants, and the less they knew about the investigation, the better.

“In for a penny, in for a pound as the English say—Americans, too. And the odd Frenchman.” Thoughtfully, he pulled the second drawer from the top.

Not too much in there, just junk, an old clutch-purse, a broken necklace, pearls, and probably fake going by the size of them. Cosmetics, used-up lipsticks. He took the cap off one, a hot pink shade that might have suited her well enough.

A few other odds and ends, a hand mirror and a comb. A couple of hairbrushes. A couple of dried-up bottles of nail polish, again in that hot pink colour. All very predictable.

“Well, well, well.”

The bottom drawer was jammed with magazines, mostly fashion but also movie stars and celebrity gossip-rags. An infinite supply of role-models of sophisticated femininity, and pictures of cute guys—

Due to the size and shape of the drawer, and the size and shape of the magazines, there had been just enough room between two stacks to stash a vibrator, its only security had been by being covered by a topmost layer carelessly tossed there, angled and sideways, apparently in sheer boredom.

You were never going to get away with that, not in a working class household where Mama did much of the work and spent a fair bit of time just snooping—and the girl had been just at that age. As for Madame Boitard, she might snoop, or she might not—the servants would likely just ignore it and keep their mouths shut.

Yet it didn’t seem all that wise, either. Was she really that stupid? Or was there something more to it. There had been no photographs taken of the insides of drawers, closets, under the bed. The original detectives had seen no need for it. He wondered about that, and the question of whether there was any need of it now—

That was one hell of a question.

And now there were voices in the hall and it would seem that Pelletier had made it up to the third floor.

Thoughtfully, Gilles replaced the magazines on top, and moved on to a dresser on the far side of the room.

Sooner or later, that door was bound to pop open, and you never quite knew who might come walking in. The dresser was basically just clothes, no surprises there, and then he would check the closet for a look at the shoes.

END

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