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

Smoking on the job, or is it break time.

Louis Shalako

Gilles had asked Édouard to phone ahead to the Hemingway Room, but Maintenon, virtually never, ordered anyone, to do anything. This was his personal style, and also part of his on-the-job training. Which Gilles was sort of making up as they went along with the work. This also involved explaining things. What looked like a simple courtesy sometimes had its uses. Having gotten Faubert on the line, Pelletier asked him about the time cards and the schedules and would it be all right if the police (a rather powerful word as Gilles had pointed out), had a look at them. They might want to take them away and copy them, strictly routine, but they would bring them back as soon as possible…naturally, the police understood the man was simply trying to run a business and they would try to limit disruption as much as possible.

The gentleman, was sounding a bit harried according to Pelletier. He had seemed reassured that they had other stops to make but would definitely get there during the gentleman’s office hours…any time before six o’clock in other words. Let the man stew on it as long as possible, as Gilles told him.

“Give him plenty of time to think.” And then see how he plays it—

“He promised to have all of that for us, although he seemed a little dubious. We’re only asking for the last three months, and not the last seven years like the tax people might do. I don’t know, that seemed to help, and at least we didn’t have to get a warrant.”

“Wonderful. And only once we get there, do we ask about personnel files, application forms, resumes, and by that point, psychologically it would be pretty hard for him to say no.” He’d be floundering for a good reason, any reason, assuming there was anything in there at all.

Pelletier nodded; this was tactics, which wasn’t entirely unfamiliar in his experience. As to the strategy, he could sort of see where this was going…maybe.

The car was running, and with some light rain coming down the wipers were going. They hadn’t actually moved as of yet. Pelletier had put all the heat up on the windshield, and it would clear in a moment. In this weather, at a hundred percent humidity, it fogged up pretty quick sometimes, with two of them inside and all the windows up except for a two-centimetre gap on the driver’s side.

“Okay, sir. Where to first.”

“We’ll go to the Boitard residence. I want soil samples from out back—a few metres from the kitchen door.”

“I’m sure there must be some kind of access off the street, probably a little alley on the end of the block, both ends, that’s for the tradesmen. Someone has to check the electrical meter, deliver sacks of potatoes and crates of champagne, and all that sort of thing…”

“No. We knock on the front door. We barge in there, unwelcome as usual, and this with a dead daughter to account for.” He wanted them to know, and they couldn’t really rely on a servant glancing out the back window at just the right moment—

“Strategy, Gilles?”

“Yes.” Strategy, for want of a better word.

Édouard let out the clutch and they were finally rolling.

“…and, as long as we’re in the neighbourhood, we’ll check out a couple more of those names while we have the chance.” He thought, and looked at his watch. “And tomorrow, we’ll have to try phoning the school, and some of Cynthie’s school friends…”

“Yes, sir.”

And then there was that Garreau kid.

***

Édouard was on the third ring of the bell by the time Jardine came to the door.

“Yes, gentlemen.”

They stood in the foyer.

“Don’t mind us, Monsieur. We will not waste too much of your precious time, and there is no need to disturb Madame.”

“Smoking on the job, Monsieur?” Edouard, and a little light needling would be a tactic, and only part of a broader strategy…

“I’m sorry for the delay, gentlemen. I was on my break.” And now it was his turn to look at his watch, all unconsciously and not just to make the point.

“That’s quite all right.” Diplomacy, also a tactic. “It just seemed a little odd.”

There was a pair of boots there on the small rug in front of the closet, clearly hers going by sheer style—the younger girls had much smaller feet, and the staff wouldn’t be leaving their shoes there in any case. There was a marble bench there, for people to sit and put the boots on.

An elementary deduction, and one which turned out to be correct.

“Is the lady at home, by any chance. We may have questions, later.”

“Yes, sirs. Madame is at home. And what can I do for you, gentlemen?”

It was Maintenon’s turn.

“I would like to inspect the rear doors, I would like to see where the coal chute is or was—I assume there is something of the sort…bearing in mind the number of fireplaces.” Whether it was coal or firewood, no matter when the place had been built, that stuff wasn’t coming in the front door. “We’ll need the keys for those as well…”

There was, in fact, a large and formal fireplace in the foyer, which was certainly impressive enough, and a half a dozen or so birch logs, pale and oddly clean-looking, lay in a wrought-iron cradle off to one side. This was mostly decorative but presumably there to be burnt when the cold of winter set in. Blackened fireplace instruments attested to the fact that the thing had actually been used if not recently. The sheer smell, or lack of it, said that much.

“Ah…let’s see here. I would like to see the wine cellar, and I believe Sergeant Pelletier has a small chore as well.”

Édouard held up his spoon and gave a grim little expression.

“More soil samples, Monsieur.” He made an apologetic shrug.

Face darkening, but what could he do about it, Jardine nodded. He’d had plenty of time to think, they all had. Surely he had some idea of the significance…

“Yes, gentlemen. Won’t you please step this way…”

They still had that warrant if they needed it.

***

Jardine had shown them the door, and bowed out with whatever grace he could muster.

And again, nowhere in the original notes was there mention of the wine cellar, or the coal room, now empty except for three burlap sacks of firewood, twenty or so kilos each, all neatly bundled and tagged by the supplier. This appeared to be a small company here in the city.

There was a thin film of dust on everything.

Next there was the boiler room, where a strong smell of home heating oil held sway, and after that, the wine cellar. This room smelled rather musty, damp concrete, old beams and the inevitable seepage this close to the Seine all contributing to one ineffable whole. The sight of a large oil tank sitting on its metal struts gave a moment of pause.

“I wonder—” Pelletier turned to Gilles. “I wonder if the driver has a key, Inspector. Some of those guys come around very early, and there’s no bell on that door. He’s not going to want to leave the truck, and go running halfway around the block to the front door, right?”

All kinds of delivery guys had keys to back doors. It was a part of the industry, where people were loading back rooms before the dawn, and yet the business owners, and householders, all regular customers, were still snug in bed.

Maintenon shrugged. He’d already figured there would be other keys out there in the world somewhere, there almost had to be. That didn’t make the fact inconsequential, no doubt the question would come up in court—always, that courtroom was lurking in the background and no good cop ever forgot it. With a couple of small windows, set up high, heavily-barred for security, they would have a look at the ground just on the other side of that wall.

“Ah. I get you.” Pelletier led on, opening the last door on the end of the hall and flipping the switch.

There were lockable wine racks along what they took to be the back wall, and along the left side and the far end, literal barrels up on heavy wooden frames, relics of a bygone age. Going by the stenciled marks on the sides of those barrels, whether empty or not, some of those would be real collector’s items.

As for bottles, the Boitards had a pretty fair selection insofar as impressions went.

Perhaps he’d read one too many books, but Pelletier went along, knocking on barrels, which were mostly empty. The odd one had a different sound, a higher tone as it were, and when he turned the cock experimentally, a fragrant and very red wine came splashing out and he quickly shut it off.

“Wow. It’s about as quiet as the grave down here.” No buses, no trams, no lorries, no Metro down here.

Not on this little block. Where he lived, you could hear the trains in the marshalling yards, three or four kilometres away…that was on a hot summer night, with the windows open and the city, for the most part asleep. In some neighbourhoods, people could literally feel the Metro going past and all underground as it were.

Gilles was looking at a different part of the wall. There was nothing there, no barrels, no wine racks. It looked like a section of wall had been repaired, the masonry blocks being somewhat smaller, lighter in colour and the mortar was a little ragged.

Almost as if it had been done by an amateur, or possibly someone in a hurry.

Pelletier looked over.

"Montresor! For the love of God."

“I wouldn’t worry about it—it’s probably just a cask of Amontillado and a skeleton chained to the wall.” He pitched his voice into the far corner. “Montresor! Montresor! For the love of God!”

This was just a few new bricks in a very old wall, in fact the upper edifice had been erected on something going back centuries. A big, heavy house would inevitably settle.

“Hmn.” But a family crypt would have had a door, and probably some inscriptions—at the very least.

The Boitards would be in the best cemetery in town, and no kidding.

Looking a little sheepish, Pelletier thought better of it—it wouldn’t do to be overheard and even the police had their dignity. This was probably more of a repair job than anything. A little seepage on the one end, and maybe some big tree roots on the other. They’d seen the branches right outside of Cynthie’s windows. He could see cracks in the cement floor, and where it had heaved in one place and settled in another.

In the dim light of a couple of overhead bulbs, it was all very spooky, and the imagination was working overtime.

Other than that, there wasn’t much joy to be had, and so it was time to move on.

END

Previous Episodes.