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

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Louis Shalako

Upon their arrival at the room, there was a battered typewriter sitting on the desk currently used by Pelletier. Glancing around, no one else’s machine appeared to be missing, so this one must be for him.

“Well. That’s news.” He reached over and pulled a sheet out of the carriage. “It’s a note from Constable Lacorse, ah, Janine.”

He skimmed it quickly and then handed it over to Maintenon, just settling in and not incidentally looking at the coffee pot.

“She says all the files are locked up in Interview Three.”

With all the samples cluttering up Interview Four, that just left One and Two—unless it was raining, (and it had been raining fairly regularly), in which case that only left Two. They’d have to do something about that, what that might be was anyone’s guess. Then there were all those strips of carpet, one had to wonder what the constables had done with those.

“Ah, keys…keys.” Gilles pulled the ring from the drawer and handed it over. “You might as well take a quick look…”

They’d also have to get Pelletier his own set.

And if he didn’t quit on the spot at the sight of all those files, it would be a good sign. This was a routine part of their work, and no one’s favourite. People had various terms for it, none of which were fit for polite society. The other thing was that the Croix de Feu, which had officially been dissolved in 1936, had been reorganized as the Parti Social Francais. While there was some dispute as to the numbers, it was said to have as many as a million, possibly more members…which helped to account for the large number of boxes of evidence, as well as the difficulty of ensuring a complete set, and also of ensuring that nothing was missing.

It was true, that the tone of the political rhetoric had softened, but only slightly, and it was also true that some of the more extreme members had drifted towards the more extreme right-wing parties. As for the name, the use of the old name, Croix de Feu was officially discouraged by the party committee, yet the old rose still smelled the same. The use of the gold lapel pins was also officially discouraged, yet the real old-timers still wore them in a kind of defiance of their own leadership—conservatism was, after all, resistance to change. Pretty much any positive change one cared to suggest, would be resisted. Negative, or regressive change was something else, of course. This was where the term reactionary stemmed from. And social changes were the worst, in their opinion.

Social programs were one of their bugbears—all that lovely money, and so much of it spent on poor people. It just didn’t make sense, or so it would seem.

The original membership, stemming from the days just after the war, hadn’t been all that political. It was more of an old boys club, in the sense it had been restricted to only those who had the right to wear the medal awarded to wounded veterans. With a membership barely in the tens of thousands, such seeds as had been sown had clearly fallen on fertile ground. A veterans association had become a political party.

Their leader, Colonel François de la Rocque, was very much old-school, hating socialism, trade unions, the popular vote, even the Republican style of government itself. Of course he saw himself at the head of a new government, a different government. It said a little something that their official crest was a skull, with crossed swords, on a cross. Based on the original medal, a decoration given to wounded veterans of the Great War, its symbolism had morphed and been transfused with new meanings. The influence of the populists, Lenin, Mussolini and later Adolf Hitler, had given them new inspiration and new methods. A whole new pack of lies as it were. They could best meet the threat by becoming one themselves...or so the thinking went.

Imitation was the best form of flattery, after all. And flattery was appeasement in another garb.

It could also be surmised that this had inspired certain ideas among the leadership, not the least of which was the strong-man principle, the one-party state, and the principle of dictatorship and rule by decree…it was also fairly clear these people would not want to make war on their ideological brethren. As to the extent of foreign involvement in money or other forms of assistance, no one could say for sure; and maybe not even them either.

More than anything, this would be one hell of a job and there were better things they could be doing.

Even assuming they’d get their two policewomen back, which was by no means certain, this could sometimes take hundreds of man-hours—or woman-hours. The fact they were not here by now wasn’t a very good sign. The only good thing would be that the lists would be in alphabetical order, and that their list of names was relatively short…

Édouard returned looking somewhat dazed, but he had a handful of files and it seemed the flow of ideas, or possibilities, continued.

Eight boxes of files...

“These are just the letter L, M, a couple of other letters, and only for Paris and its environs.” He really should have taken the notebook and been a little more methodical.

It really was kind of overwhelming, as he put it.

“Fine, fine. Hand over the first one. Or any one—” They’d start with Lalonde, whom they’d at least met.

Gilles had his own painstaking copy of Pelletier’s list. They’d cross them out one by one.

It was Édouard’s turn to utter a long, deep sigh.

“So. The girls went through all that shit, and condensed it to a mere eight boxes…they have a nice little inventory and the boxes are labeled as to contents…” Most of which they probably wouldn’t need but it had to be there, in the sense that it had to be shown that there was nothing missing, and that nothing had been overlooked. “They have sent the other boxes down to Archives, all neatly sorted and collated. The tables are stacked and Housekeeping will get that out of there sooner or later. Er, the contractors have at least been in there. Their plan is to start the tear-out tomorrow…the curtains are down and there were two workers scraping the tiles loose…”

Other than that, he didn’t know much.

“Hmn.”

“…I suppose I found this stuff, easily enough…”

“Let’s hope that damned phone doesn’t ring.”

With just the two of them there, the odds were about fifty-fifty, or about the same as any other day.

***

Maddeningly enough, LeBref hadn’t shown up, Firmin was gone again, but there was at least a report. They’d both have to read that…Archambault’s report was for an unrelated case, so that was for Gilles only. There were thin reports from the others and he’d have to read them as well.

The door opened and an impressive figure entered the room, dispatch case in hand.

A motorcycle courier, with an envelope for Pelletier—another warrant by the look of it.

Clad in a helmet, goggles slung around the neck, leather jacket, the big boots, he gave Maintenon a salute and got the young sergeant to sign for it. He clicked the pen and stowed that carefully.

“Good luck and good hunting, gentlemen.” He nodded. “That’s straight from the judge himself.”

Pelletier looked at Maintenon.

“Do we tip these guys?”

The fellow chuckled good-naturedly.

“Non. A simple thank-you will suffice.”

A tall man, he waited, affability written all over his homely mug…

“Thank you.”

“You are very welcome, Sergeant Pelletier.” With a nod, he was gone—

“Well.”

Édouard slit the thing open and pulled out the papers. He studied them for a moment, and then handed them over.

“Outstanding. No time limit. Business premises, home and domicile even. Cars and vans as applicable…there’s a little note. Let me know what else you need.”

“Oui, mon ami. Rochfort is nothing if not thorough.”

Gilles settled in to read Firmin’s report. Pelletier opened up a large manila envelope from the bottom drawer of his desk, which was lockable. Opening it up, he pulled out the stack of time cards, held together in weekly bundles with elastic bands, and then the schedule sheets, one per week going back three months. These were held together with a large paper clip. With the sheer number of employees, there turned out to be a couple of sheets for each week…

Having gotten himself a cup of coffee, and with Maintenon’s cigar sending friendly curlicues of blue smoke up and around the lights and the ceiling fans, it was time to do some work.

Almost instantly, he looked up, mouth hanging.

“Inspector?”

“Yes, Édouard?”

“Do you recall that little stack of time-cards on the corner of Fritz’s desk?” Édouard had been on the far side, but Gilles had been right there.

“Ah, yes—why?”

“Do you recall…fuck, I should be careful with this question. But do you, by any chance, remember what colour of ink was on the top card…”

Gilles took a breath.

“Yes. It was blue—”

Wordlessly, taking the stack like a deck of cards, he stood now, beside Maintenon’s desk.

“Pick a card—any card.” Carefully, one by one, he began laying them all out in a row across from Gilles.

Gilles leaned in, scanning card after card. The time stamps, the employee names, neatly printed, the initials in the box beside every shift…it was all in black ink.

“There are no blue cards here.”

Gilles nodded, sharply.

Interesting...

“Also, I seem to recall the name was handwritten—not exactly a signature, readable enough, but—even so.” Printing was perhaps easier for one or a very small group to fake, in the sense there were anything up to thirty or forty employees, including part-timers and front-office types

Gilles looked up into staring eyes.

“Gilles. We have that warrant—if the man wasn’t a total idiot, he really should have taken the real cards out last night…”

Going back, he grabbed the schedules, hands just a little shaky right about now.

“Fuck. They’re all in black ink too.”

And every name printed, this time most likely the same person, Faubert himself even.

Presented with a problem, either unanticipated, or perhaps they simply didn’t understand the threat at this late date. Whatever. They’d taken the bait.

Interesting.

“Young man.”

“…sir?”

“You’ve just earned yourself a very good lunch. I’m buying.” He checked the clock. “In the meantime, we work.”

***

After studying the menu, they had placed their orders.

Pelletier shook his head.

“That crazy LeBref. Unbelievable.”

Maintenon snorted.

“I’ve been deputized.” Édouard laughed. “In the never-ending struggle to defeat the ends of injustice.”

Joseph had an original cast of mind, as he put it.

“I agree.” He considered. “Joseph—this was a very long time ago. He was just a little too young for the War. But, in any case, they don’t draft priests. He was in the seminary, he was going to become a priest. I suppose that’s where he got the clothes on short notice. Still had them in the closet, smelling of mothballs after all these years. They get the tonsure—the haircut, and he took minor orders. He was well on the way to becoming an ordained priest, when he was politely asked to give it up. Anyhow, as he once told me, there’s more than one way to do God’s work.”

He at least knew the drill, he had an old school friend in that particular parish.

Once the situation was explained, and not without their own sense of humour, he’d been obliged with the privilege of taking confession, which, in more than one sense, he was more than qualified to do…

“So, he became a cop. Huh. So. What happened, anyways?”

“Huh!” Gilles took a sip of a fine cabernet sauvignon. “One too many girlfriends, and of course he got caught and someone dropped a ten-centime on him. One phone call, and that’s all it took. Naturally, the Church was highly embarrassed.”

“How many girlfriends?” He raised the glass in a tactical error—and drank.

“Er—about three, I think.”

Pelletier choked on his beer. Gasping, he recovered himself.

“…yeah—that’s him all right.”

Now it was Maintenon’s turn to laugh.

“Just doing God’s work, my son—”

END

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