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

The death of an innocent...

Louis Shalako

While there was a strong urge to get out of there again, to be running to and fro, all over the city, there was the problem of the diary, and then there were the lab reports. Gilles had the diary in his desk drawer, having barely glanced inside but not exactly forgetting about it either. It just seemed like such a long shot.

The first few lines had been convincing—

Pelletier was reading the first report. He looked up.

“Huh.”

“What?”

“The soil samples from our assortment of shoes do not match any of the samples from the various houseplants and flower-pots around the Boitard residence.” It was a little deflating, considering he’d gone to some trouble to get those shoes and those samples.

Yet it didn’t necessarily shoot down the entire theory, only one possible aspect of it; the actual source of the dirt being almost immaterial at this point.

He put the sheets back in the envelope and, reaching over, put it on the stack on the left corner of Maintenon’s main desk. He opened up the next envelope. He began to read.

He looked up—Gilles had wandered over to the coffee pot, in somewhat speculative fashion but there appeared to be the dregs, just a few millimetres of dark fluid in the bottom. It might be enough—perfectly aged on some level. His liver could probably take it.

“Okay. These are the blood samples and the knives.”

“Right.” Gilles sipped cautiously and made a face.

Perfect.

“Sample One, O-positive, found in thirty-seven to thirty-nine percent of the population. Sample Two, B-positive, which is found in a much smaller percentage of the population, without being considered all that rare. That runs around seven-point-six to nine percent of the population…” He read a little further. “Knife One, shows O-positive, and Knife Two shows B-positive. Which is just about what we would expect. Unfortunately, we can’t confirm that by examination of the bodies, which are missing, whether alive or dead. Hmn.”

That blood could have come from almost anywhere, and so could the knives for that matter—nowhere in the notes had the staff been asked that particular question and neither Gilles nor Édouard had either. It wasn’t that they were making assumptions, it was that they simply hadn’t gotten that far. But a large and busy restaurant might be purchasing such tools of the trade from a regular supplier, and probably more than one knife at a time. It was one more question to ask. The two knives in question were identical, confirmed by the photos and the lab boys, and were from a brand-name manufacturer. They appeared to be brand new.

And yet—

Half the restaurants in town would have a knife or two like that laying around.

“Hmn.”

Maintenon thought about it.

“We need to find out a lot more about our alleged victims. I reckon that includes Cynthie as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Other than that, we’re coming up on lunch time. We haven’t heard anything from LeBref. Andre knows nothing about any of our cases, LeBref has court this afternoon, Margot and Garnier are gone…” He hadn’t seen Archambault in days.

And then there was Firmin. He hadn’t shown up so far this morning.

“So, what are you getting at?”

“Grab your hat. Let’s get the hell out of here before the God-damned phone rings.”

As it surely must.

Gilles reached into the drawer and pulled out the diary, which went into the jacket pocket.

“Bring your spoon and a handful of envelopes, and we’ll grab our briefcases.”

“All righty then.” He was a little mystified, but there might be a park or public garden just down the street from the Boitard’s—just one more question, right.

It was only a matter of time before the constables in two-oh-seven had gone through every stinking box of material from the Croix de Feu, in order to find everything, but also to make sure nothing had been missed.

All those lists—not exactly light reading, but it would have to be done.

Gilles was right. It was time to get out of there.

Monsieur Roy, can spot a flic a kilometre away.

***

There was a place, not too far from the Quai, just up the river on the Left Bank. Le Rive Gauche, the left bank, was the southern side of the river. Le Poissons du Roi, literally The Royal Fish, with the sign up above showing a gaudy fish with a golden crown perched on its head. Not only did they have a sit-down restaurant indoors, patrons had a little patio beside the shred of a building still left on this side of the street, overlooking the Seine and its own secret life, threading through the city, in the broad light of day and in the quiet hours of the night.

Once a small warehouse on the riverbank, pretty much every other building on the block had been taken down, which gave a view from the other side of the street. It also allowed for a promenade, ornamental trees and a series of small parks with benches and tubs of flowers, now wilting for the most part, colourful petals scattered all about, although some of those blooms would stay on until the snow flew.

This was a far cry from the Hemingway Room, but they made a fine fish and chips, and naturally the menu ran the gamut of seafood and shellfish. A certain Monsieur Roy was the proprietor and he was there every day, six days a week. He could also spot a flic a kilometre away, and brought them a pair of menus personally.

“Is that swordfish fresh—” Édouard was tempted to ask, jokingly, but decided to keep that one to himself.

If Gilles wanted fish and chips, that was fine with him, and it was the cheapest thing on the menu anyways.

He’d just gotten paid on Friday, but the new rate wouldn’t take hold for a while and he’d have to wait another two weeks for that. Other than that, he had a few francs in the wallet. His room and board were paid, and most of the bills…

Maintenon had ordered the small pitcher of draft, a lager that he knew, one chalked in blue on the signboard out front.

He shook salt into his palm and then carefully brushed a little of that off and let it fall into the creamy foam on top…

“So.”

About that diary.

***

Édouard struggled to get the last shred of the coleslaw, one of his personal weaknesses, although it would difficult to say why.

“I don’t know what it is, but I just love that stuff.”

Gilles nodded indulgently.

The day had turned dark, cool and cloudy with the promise of more rain in the air. This may have been a good thing as the lunch hour turned into early afternoon and the madding crowd had dispersed on their little patio. Quite frankly, it was a good thing they had jackets, a belly full of food and if worst came to worst they could simply go inside and sit at the bar.

This had at least the semblance of privacy.

Édouard sat listening, spellbound, as Gilles read a few little snippets from Cynthie Boitard’s diary.

“Dear diary, what scurrilous little tidbits shall I write this forlorn eve, now that Richard, dear, dear Richard has scrambled down the drainpipe like an athletic wraith, or an arthritic circus performer, I am never quite sure which. However, suffice to say, the velvet-headed serpent has visited this humble boudoir and left me sated in body and troubled in mind…”

“…oh, wow…”

Gilles nodded. There was more, of course.

“…and the evil wench, that whore of Satan, Esmeralda, the Princess of Orgasmia, shall vent her evil spite on the innocents, but she shall not have him again…”

“Oh, nom de Dieu.”

“Yes, Édouard. I’m not too sure we’re going to find too many clues in here.”

Pelletier swallowed.

“And yet, we must do it.” They had no choice but to look.

“Yes, we must do it. If there is nothing here, we can at least spare the others…”

“…who shall it be tomorrow? The dashing Albert, the dreamy Francois…Victor, of the sad but beautiful eyes…they are all mine, and no other shall ever have them…Sheikh Omar, the scourge of the desert, and the most delicious seduction…I shall be first among his concubines...”

“Ha. It seems the young lady…er, was leading a rich and varied…fantasy life.”

“It’s all here in black and white.” Gilles sighed, deeply.

She could have been a writer...

He flipped pages and read some more.

“…having achieved the heights of ecstasy, to plumb the depths of hell…to bear the crushing burden, of being alone in an unfriendly world…and to hear the voice of my lover, speaking on the wind…far, far away and never to return.”

One way or another, someone would have to read this thing from one end to another. Flipping through the pages, it seemed to be about two-thirds to three-quarters full, and thank God or Charles Darwin or somebody, but it had been the only diary—the thought that there might be other fucking volumes was a quaint thought indeed.

“Fuck. She might have been a pretty good writer. If only she’d lived long enough to grow up.” Édouard sucked back the last of a short glass of draft beer and looked sourly at the empty pitcher. “I reckon we’d better get out of here, Gilles. While we still can—”

“…life is but an empty bubble, still, and so we must go on. If only for the sake of life itself…”

Maintenon snapped the book closed.

“Fuck. Gilles. How do we even know this is real?”

“Huh. We’ll have to compare the handwriting…with some of her school work, most likely…” So far, they’d avoided contacting the school, located in Lausanne…or any of her school friends, scattered all across France and Europe. “She must have written letters and things like that.”

Gilles passed the book across the table. Pelletier opened it up about halfway through, flipped a few pages, stopped, and had a look.

“Hmn. Listen to this, Gilles.”

“I used to pray for Death

But then I feared to live

To live in fear is not to live at all

And I was living so very, very badly

To be confronted by Death is a very liberating experience

Maybe that is what saved me.

I was saved by Death.”

With a dark look, he closed it and handed it back.

“I want to catch this killer, Gilles. I want him real bad. Sir.”

Ah.

Anger—real anger, and it seemed that reality had finally caught up to Édouard. The reality of murder, the murder of an innocent, and this was no longer just a fascinating game, or a chance to show off his brain-power. If he hadn’t been hooked, well and truly hooked before, he sure as hell was now.

And a little anger goes a long way sometimes.

“Yes, mon ami. And so do I. So. Let us get the hell out of here.”

At least the car had a heater, and Pelletier had his list of names and addresses.

Something would come up; it almost always did.

Fuck.