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

"Golden eucalyptus for the walls, teak for the floor and stripes for the wallpaper..."

Louis Shalako

Joseph, Hubert and Levain came traipsing in, laughing, making wisecracks and slapping each other on the shoulder.

They straightened up at the look on Maintenon’s face, and then there was Pelletier, who took the opportunity to break off for a minute and head on down the hall to get water for the coffee-pot.

“Hey, Gilles. Good to see you.” Hubert fished around in an inner pocket and pulled out an impressive Havana, what with being a new-born dad and all.

Gilles accepted it with a certain humour. A certain gravitas.

After a few wet lunches of his own lately, Gilles couldn’t say much about the discernable aroma of alcohol, but all of this hilarity wasn’t all that welcome just now.

“Congratulations. Ah—was it a girl, or was it a boy?” He’d been so busy, he hadn’t even heard yet.

“A boy, Gilles. We’re calling him Jean.”

For the sake of politeness, even affection, Gilles had to indulge them, Hubert at the very least, and yet there was work to be done.

“Please give my kindest regards to Emanuelle, and whatever blessings I can conjure go out to your son Jean.” For some reason, it came out kind of awkwardly.

Perhaps sensing the mood, the others broke off to their desks.

“Thank you, Gilles. They’re home from the hospital now and you really should come around to the house…so, I hear we got a new guy, that was him, right? And we’re getting a new room, and some cars, and they say Lebeau might be coming back too.”

“Oh, really? Then you know more than I do. It’s a good thing, too. We’re going to need all hands on deck for the next little while.”

“Anyways, Gilles, I was just stopping in for a minute. I’ll be back Monday morning, all raring to go, and I promise you that.”

“Sounds good. We’ll see you Monday then.”

God knows they could use the help.

***

“Joseph.”

“Yes, Gilles?”

“How have you been making out.”

“Oh, I don’t know. Jardine came in for confession all right, the problem is that he didn’t have much to confess. I’ve taken his confession twice, and he seemed to accept me at face value, what with Father Vincent on leave. I’ve often wondered if killers go to confession, but so far, not much joy.”

“Ah. So, what has he been saying.”

“He’s been saying his life is hell, he hates the chauffer, the cook is an old bitch, the Madame is okay mostly, and that old man Boitard has been a perfect pain in the ass lately.” He liked the kids, and was as upset as anybody at the murder of Cynthie.

Maintenon.

Insofar as he could make out, and insofar as he could safely ask, although priests did read the papers and they did know at least a little something about their parishioners. In order to counsel someone spiritually, you had to know something about them and their lives.

“Nothing about the girl?”

“Honestly, it really hasn’t come up. Not that much. The family, as one might expect, what with being filthy, stinking rich, are members of the congregation at Notre Dame, and at least, they show up a few times a year. Weddings, funerals, baptisms, and Midnight Mass as applicable. That would be Easter and Christmas time. You understand, I can only press so hard and I can also only get so inquisitive—I can only get so specific in the questions.” As for absolution, that was something else, and easy enough to give.

“Okay. So…how long has Boitard been going on like this? Has Jardine hated the chauffer since day one.” Had anything happened in the meantime.

“Hmn. I did get that much out of him. Monsieur Boitard has been going through some stressful situation, at work he figures, going back eight or ten months, maybe even longer. Jardine is quite hot about it, which is understandable bearing in mind he can’t really talk about it. I reckon the confessional is a safe place for his resentments if not his actual sins. Which aren’t too many, as far as I can make out.” As for the chauffer, he was just a creep and no apologies for that.

“So. It’s nothing to do with the murder of the daughter then.” Cynthie—

“I don’t know, Gilles. You’d have to ask him about all of that—” Other than that, anything he did find out would have to be used very carefully.

There was the sanctity of the confessional, and quite frankly, none of this would be of much use in a court of law.

“His sins are mostly venial, as near as I can make out, and pretty pathetic at that.”

As for the chauffer, the man was a slob, a pervert, mouthy to his fellow workers, and spent much of his day in his room, by the radio, and looking out the window at the birds and the bees, of which he was said to be exceedingly fond in a virile, masculine sort of a way.

“Do you think it’s worth going on?’

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s only one afternoon a week, Thursday afternoons. He’s pretty punctual so far, and then I can get out of there. He hasn’t been back to the Croix de Feu, according to Firmin.” Who was finding the whole thing pretty fruitless so far, and who also had a case-load of his own.

As did Joseph, come to think upon it—

And he had a few other things he needed to do.

“And what about all of those other people, Joseph.”

“Oh, that’s easy, Gilles. I bless them and absolve them from all sins, and then they go out and pray, and it’s a pretty easy gig, all things considered.”

“Well. It’s always good to have another string to your bow.”

Joseph: Taking confession.

***

“Andre.”

“Yes, Boss?” Andre, having only gotten back from vacation, and having passed off some of his cases to the others for the duration, was only just now catching up with the game.

Gilles reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a set of keys.

“Let’s go have a look at that room.”

Right about then the phone started ringing, and they exchanged a long, unspoken moment of communication.

“I’ll get that.” Pelletier picked up and listened.

Frowning slightly, eyebrows furrowed in concentration, he grabbed a pen and began making notes.

As one, Gilles and Andre Levain rose and headed for the door.

***
“So, whatever possessed LeBref to become a fake priest, anyways.”

“The devil made him do it.”

Andre chuckled at that one.

“He’s right about one thing. It’s inadmissible, and probably sacrilege to boot.”

“That’s between him and God, and we’ll take what we can get. Anyhow, what do you think?”

“It’s beautiful, Gilles. Just fucking beautiful.”

They were looking at the drawings…

Twenty metres long, ten metres wide, six tall windows, and two doors, one at each end. Private offices, interview rooms, a kitchenette, and a big, open, common area with a kind of reception desk. Unbelievable—and yet Gilles had done it. Fucking showers and lockers no less—even more unbelievable. And maybe even a few dedicated vehicles, which would be outstanding.

They stood just inside the right-hand door, as workmen, and at least one woman, went about, down at the other end, in their coveralls and their painter-pants. There were four or five of them down there, going at it hammer-and-tongs. The basic framing was up, some of the partitions were sort of complete, and there was this smell of fresh plaster in the air.

There was a brief lull.

There appeared to be a consultation down at the far end. Voices rose, faded and then there were nods all around, and people turned away.

“…fuck, it’s like herding cats around here sometimes…herding cats.”

Someone laughed, and threw one last look down this way—for surely, this would be the customer.

A man turned and headed their way.

“What did he just say, Gilles?”

“He said, and I quote—herding cats.” Which was a kind of serendipity, because that was exactly why he had brought Andre down here—to give him his first good look, and also in some strange way, to talk about herding cats.

But this was going to take some organization, far more than they’d had before when it was just the six or seven of them.

***

Serge, as he introduced himself, had looked at his watch and inquired as to whether either of the two gentlemen had seen hide or hair of Detective Margot, who was about due with another series of colour choices, without which they would soon have to call a halt as the partitions were mostly up and it would take some small time for the plaster to dry…tomorrow morning at the earliest.

Right about then, the door opened and there she was, with a bulging portfolio, and even as they looked a couple of rolls of wallpaper fell away from under the other arm, and she was scrambling for them.

In spite of himself, Gilles had sort of been foiled again, but they were distracted with golden eucalyptus for the walls, teak for the wooden flooring, a pale, creamy yellow carpet in the private offices, and some variations on a theme for the window treatments, the common areas, and then there would be the interview rooms and the holding cells.

She had a kind of institutional, sea-foam green picked out for them, although the floor would be a plain black tile. If that didn’t make them confess, nothing would.

The wallpaper in the common areas, was a kind of yellow with medium-blue vertical stripes. This would set off very nicely, pictures and posters, notices and bulletin-boards.

Inspirational placards and the like.

“Well. Sooner or later, someone will have to make a decision.”

Serge, a very patient man apparently, had listened, nodded, and went away after a while…sooner or later, someone would authorize something and then he would go ahead.

And not a moment before, apparently.

Detective Andre Levain, overdue for promotion.

As for the desks, typewriters, telephones, all the accoutrements of modern police work, she was still working on that with Archambault of all people. Who hadn’t been seen lately, or so Gilles recalled, which brought them promptly back to herding cats, and the question of organization, or communication, or maybe even just keeping track of where everybody was, who was here and who was not; and what they were working on, at any given moment of any given day…herding cats, in other words. It was not an argument, not when you were doing all the talking.

As Roger himself had said, you could hardly have contemporary policing, without contemporary décor. As for methods, they were improving all the time. At the very least, they had a budget, and they could try and make it a little more humane, as Margot put it.

And then there was Andre—who was more than overdue for promotion, and who could have taken on any precinct in the city, or found a place in any department that he chose.

Andre, who had a wife and two kids, and who had just gone off for three weeks of vacation, and just at the peak of summer, which was about as good as it ever got in the homicide business. How could one ever break it to him, that this sort of thing might never happen again…at least not on any regular basis.

And then there was Gilles, who had a little over two years to retirement, and there was also the question of who might take over when he finally did let go.

There was the question of how good Andre or any other person, might be at herding cats, once he was gone.

“And, we will have to train them as they come.”

“…and how many people did you say we were getting, Gilles…”

Which was a very good question, when you thought about it, and of course he had no good answer.

But—

All of those hours, all of those time-sheets, expense-sheets, all of that organization, all of that bullshit, would have to be accounted for.

Someone would have to figure all of this out, and would probably be him. He was going to need all of their help with this one.

This thing, this new room, was turning into something of a juggernaut.

All Gilles could do, was to sort of point things in the right direction, and let them take it where they would.

Assuming they even wanted it.

END

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