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

Holly, the kitchen maid.

Louis Shalako

When it came to scaring the hell out of people, Pelletier didn’t need too many lessons.

After rounding up the servants, including Jardine and Boniface, Monsieur’s driver, Édouard had brusquely confined them to the kitchen area, informing them that their quarters were to be searched and they’d be allowed to return to their rooms when all was said and done.

In the meantime, they could sit around drinking tea and bitching. They weren’t even being guarded—it was strictly on their own honour and there was a restroom right there.

With the house having centralized air conditioning, life on the fifth floor might not be too unbearable, although the temperature had climbed significantly, floor-by-floor as they went along.

“Are we really going to search each and every one of these rooms, Gilles?” There was only the two of them.

“I reckon we’ll have to make a stab at it.” If only for show, and there was no telling what they might find, if anything.

So far, there had been no big surprises. The driver, Boniface, down on the ground floor, had his own room, with an attached bathroom, and apparently the man was a real pig—also, maid service clearly wasn’t being provided by the other staff. As might have been expected. But they were all women, and the big pile of glossy pornographic magazines, not just beside the bed but in the bathroom as well, might have offered some kind of a clue as to why. This was no surprise, not once you’d spoken to the man, who apparently had something to prove in terms of sexuality or maybe just some personal doubts about his own manhood. The sort of man who wasn’t getting paid to clean his own room, and so he just didn’t do it…the place was so bad, one wondered if Monsieur Boitard or anyone else had ever been in there. If so, they would not have been pleased. Other than that, it would be safe to say that the gentleman had no other sexual or possibly even emotional outlets.

Boniface: why won't they clean my room.

It was no big surprise that Jardine’s little suite was neat, clean, tidy, with all traces of personality subdued or even tasteful. And no pornography—as for drink or tobacco, there was nary a trace of any such thing. The most damning thing in there was a packet of chocolate cookies, with exactly three missing, presumably eaten. That and the milk-glass, which hadn’t been rinsed and should have been taken back to the kitchen, if only the next morning. Talking about the staff, or more personal sexual exploits would be about the farthest thing from his mind, whether he had anything to talk about or not would be pure guesswork. This was a man that would never tell…other than that, some of the books on the small bookshelf were all right, according to Pelletier.

It was no big surprise that the master bedrooms, both of them, were huge, for it would appear that husband and wife slept apart. Although they shared a bath, both rooms had walk-in closets that were big enough to be bedrooms in their own right, at least at lower levels of the income scale.

Taking a quick look here and there, Madame didn’t appear to have a vibrator, for example, although the jewelry box was impressive enough. Everything, toiletries, cosmetics, bath soap, was high end. There would be no bargains in this household, nothing to cheapen the impression, which would exist mostly in their own heads, and considering how many, or how few people would ever be admitted to such private spaces.

There were three other bedrooms on that floor, fairly large, nice enough but clearly meant for guests, and the closets and dressers were mostly empty. Clean enough, decorated with an eye for detail, and yet without any real character in their own right.

The living room had held no great surprises, neither the large formal dining room, with its cabinets, drawers and its own linens in a dedicated closet. As rooms, they were beautiful enough, which was about all one could say for them, particularly so as they were outside their own common experience; a kind of alien environment. As for the expense, it kind of boggled the mind, but then the standards were very different up here on Cloud Nine, as Pelletier called it.

They had avoided the kitchen, and so far had really only glanced into Monsieur Boitard’s personal office, with Pelletier rifling quickly through desk drawers in the search for anything, anything at all, that might be considered incriminating. He’d bagged up an appointment book, mostly so they could look into a few names from the time period in question. Hopefully this would bear results, one simply never knew—it was that kind of fishing expedition. One must note such things, of course, to make an inventory of property seized, and assuming no charges laid, it would be returned in due course. There was nothing more unsatisfying than a half-hearted search, a fact upon which they had both agreed.

Without the combination to the wall safe, there wasn’t much they could do there either.

The kid’s bedrooms, especially the younger ones, were a special case, but the impression there was of toys, clothes, books, and more toys and more clothes and more books, games, sporting equipment for the boys and dolls and tea-sets for the youngest girl, Melissa. The oldest sister, Geraldine, had been married for some time, and her room was much as she must have left it—and nothing of particular interest there either.

As for the female servants, those who lived-in, there were minor glimpses of personality, and not every room had been created equal either. The cook had a bigger room, a corner room, a bigger bed, and two windows. That one had a couple of very small houseplants, which Pelletier had already sampled in terms of the potting soil. The maids had single beds, one window, and they all seemed to share one fairly large bath just at the top of the stairs. One girl had a Bible in the bedside table drawer, and a crucifix on the wall, in the next room it was all fashion magazines and the street clothes in the closet reflected some taste if not major expenditure. No Bibles, and no vibrators here either, as Pelletier had put it. Two or three rooms were clearly unoccupied at present, and all closets and drawers had been empty.

As for incriminating evidence, not one whit—a very nice word, but the day was young and they had nothing better to do than to keep looking.

“I’m kind of having a hard time with this, Gilles.”

“Try thinking like a killer.”

“Huh! Now there’s an idea.” Turning away from the latest closet, he gave the Inspector a wry grin. “I like that one.”

He brightened.

“Anyhow, the next room is Holly’s…er, and that’s about it for this floor.”

Ah, yes, the slender, black-haired beauty on kitchen detail.

“Ah, yes, the kind of girl you bring home to smother—” Gilles was joking, and Pelletier looked a little shocked at that one, but he was as quick as a wink.

“Ah—thinking like a killer. You certainly have the mind for it. Right, sir?”

Gilles found himself at a loss.

“Right.”

There was nothing else to say—how in the hell would you ever top that one.

Thinking like a killer.

***

“What do you think they’re talking about down there, Gilles?”

“Us, Édouard. They’re talking about us.”

“Okay. Well, I guess that’s about it then—” It was a shitty feeling, but he’d half-flirted with Holly, and here they were, searching through her most intimate things.

Things which had turned out to be terribly humble things, when taken in the grand scheme of…such things.

There was a peremptory knock on the door frame, and a man stood in the doorway as they’d left the door open, only closing them as they went along. A hulking figure at his side stepped forward and proffered an envelope. The smaller man was expensively dressed, the other one was just big and ugly.

It was a small room and he moved aside on a touch from the other.

“What’s this?” Pelletier—

“…and just who exactly are you gentlemen?”

“This, young man, is a cease-and-desist order, signed by a very prominent jurist of my acquaintance…and all the information you require is provided thereby…”

“Ah, well.” Drying up, he looked at Maintenon.

“Thank you, I will take that.”

“This writ orders you to immediately halt all present activities and to remove yourselves from the premises forthwith.”

“Go to hell.”

Even Pelletier sort of blanched at that one.

“Sir. If you do not obey this order from the court, you will face the legal penalties.”

“Édouard.”

“Sir?”

“These gentlemen are leaving.”

“Yes, sir.”

He took one step forward.

Turning, apparently they had decided not to call his bluff. The smaller one turned again, once into the hallway. The other one just waited, looking over a shoulder, the strong and silent type.

“You will regret this.”

“Regrets are unprofessional.”

The upper lip curled.

“Yes, they are—young man.”

“Complain to my union.”

“Trust me, I will.” And then they were stumping their way back down that five sets of stairs.

As for the elevator, it only went to the second floor anyways.

And, on some theoretical level, it was their turn to be scared shitless—but only theoretically. The young man turned to the Boss.

“Interesting. We seem to have struck a nerve, or have we…” This was both a question and a statement.

It was all he said, and he was right, too.

And then, there were the shoes.

END