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

"So, this is your famous cat."

Louis Shalako

After a quick stop for groceries and some other small incidentals, including beer, cognac and tobacco, Hermione had helped him to carry all that, three bags of groceries, up to the flat. He’d also had a pretty heavy briefcase, bulging with stuff he planned on reading over the weekend. If Gilles went out to the market on the weekend, it would at least be a smaller load. Not that there was anything in particular that he needed—except maybe just to get the hell out of the house for a while. He could always buy a tomato and come home…a pack of cigarettes, a lottery ticket or whatever.

“Thank you, Constable. I can put this away myself.”

She seemed inclined to linger, eyes lighting up at the sight of Sylvestre.

“So. This is your famous cat…”

He grinned.

“Yes. Careful, or you’ll have cat hair all over you…”

Normally, the animal just wasn’t that friendly with strangers. On the other hand, Gilles didn’t get too many visitors and the cat had just spent a couple of months with LeBref and family, where it would have gotten a lot more attention.

“Hopefully, I can get a housekeeper fairly soon, and then he won’t be alone here all the time.”

That being said, the cat was probably more adaptable than he was.

“That’s all right. We have cats, and I use a brush or even a handful of tape on the uniform anyways.” She didn’t appear to have a wedding ring, so this probably meant she was still living with the family.

He’d find out, eventually—by asking someone else, probably Janine.

“Tape?”

“Sure. We wrap tape around our hand, inside-out so to speak, that’s so it doesn’t stick to the hand. Then we pat or rub, and it works pretty well.”

“Ingenious.”

She nodded at that, and he stopped himself from further remarks—

Such as, never underestimate a woman or a pretty girl.

She gave the thing a little kiss on the top of the head and put it down again.

“Hmn. And this is why I never wear a black suit.” It was his turn to pick up the cat, purring loudly and at least he wasn’t turning circles around their ankles. “Tape, eh. That’s downright brilliant.”

He’d remember that one, and that was for sure.

“So. What would you like to do about the car, sir?”

“Ah. Yes. There’s nowhere around here, where we could safely stash it. What about your place?”

She shook her head.

“No, unfortunately.”

He looked at the clock.

He sighed, but they could only liberate so many vehicles without official authorization. Sooner or later, someone would remark upon it, and they were already pushing their luck about as hard as they dared.

“All right, you might as well take it back to the shop and turn it back over to the Motor Pool. We treat Sergeant Simard all right, and he will treat us all right. And then—”

“And then?”

“And then, you can take the rest of the day off.”

She laughed at that one.

“Oh—do you need a pickup on Monday morning.”

“I have Pelletier’s number and he has been taking the car home at night.”

“Okay, sir. We shall see you on Monday?”

“Yes. At least that’s the plan…” Assuming nothing came up over the weekend, and all of a sudden Gilles recalled the doctor. “We have our lists, and a ton of work to do.”

“Very well.” She gave him a wave and headed for the door.

Yes, the doctor and his damned remark about masturbation—

She really was, just a little bit disturbing, which was a very nice word.

Other than the housekeeper, he hadn’t had a woman in the place in years, and it probably showed.

Argh.

...hasn't had a woman around the place in years...

***

After feeding the cat, pouring a glass of cold beer, ridding himself of shoes and the jacket, and things like that, Gilles wasn’t very hungry himself.

He and Firmin had had their little talk, but there had only been so much time in the day, with about fifteen things going on all at once, whereas the written report ran to something like ten or twelve pages, and then there was LeBref, Pelletier, and Margot.

As for the more experienced members of the Unit, if they weren’t involved in this case, or these cases, they could essentially supervise themselves for the time being—although, he would need to monitor their basic progress on any case, but he really didn’t need all those fine details. He trusted them well enough to know they weren’t just goofing off—

There was such a thing as information overload. Two days off might allow a kind of focus.

Taking his beer and the briefcase into the living room, he set that down and opened up the windows just a little more; and turned on the big electric fan, up on its pedestal.

Going back to the kitchen, he pulled a couple of fresh cigars out of the box and brought the lighter. Rather than bringing the whole box, it forced him to get up and walk a little from time to time.

When was the last time he had even gone for a walk…outside of the hospital grounds.

When was the last time he’d cleaned the bathroom, or scrubbed a floor—and that was a good one too.

Grabbing the armchair, he adjusted the position ever so slightly. There was a lamp right there for when he needed it. He found a clean ashtray, and that was about it.

Finally, he settled in, took a sip, and licked foam off of his lips. He lit a cigar and began to read.

***

Firmin, unknown to the Boitards and the servants, had been tailing them in turns, as opportunity arose. LeBref was doing it too, but that was another report—

He’d been following Jardine, bearing in mind he might skip out on the weekly confessional and go somewhere a little more interesting next time. This was not without challenges, what with having a vehicle, and yet at the same time, there was the necessity of hopping out and following on foot when he went into a store or other indoor place…taking a short cut through an alley and things like that. Jardine walked, took the bus or the Metro. The only time he’d taken a cab, he’d stopped in at the Croix de Feu in an act which implied, some urgency.

Lifting a few sheets, it looked like he’d dealt with them name-by-name, rather than going consecutively and hopping back and forth between them.

First there was Emile, Monsieur Boitard, and then Louise Boitard, and then Monsieur Jardine, and it looked like one or two others after that.

First, Monsieur Boitard. The gentleman would be driven to work by the chauffer, who would promptly return home where he would lurk in his room unless called upon to drive the Madame, or the cook or anyone really, assuming they were part of the household. He only picked up the Monsieur after work, about half the time. The kids seemed to walk back and forth to school, although on one really wet morning they’d all piled into the car and been dropped off; the Monsieur going on to work perhaps a little earlier than usual. The only time the chauffer had left the house on his own, he’d walked down the street a few blocks and bought a handful of pornographic magazines, a carton of cigarettes and not much else.

The cook would be shopping for a fairly large household and that was logical, in the sense that you couldn’t really order every little thing over the phone.

You couldn’t squeeze the tomatoes over the phone, essentially. Poor old Firmin, following the cook around…and squeezing the tomatoes and maintaining his own cover.

Firmin: eminently forgettable.

He grinned at his own thoughts.

Monsieur would invariably be at work half an hour early, as befitted a career man and a high official at the bank. He had all the keys, and he would have to open up. He would leave shortly before noon, lunching either at his club, or more occasionally, at a nearby brasserie with a small group of other executives, big-shot clients maybe, and mostly male. While he might have a glass of wine, he didn’t appear to be much of a drinker.

Also in keeping with his status in the organization, he appeared to leave early on a regular basis, once or twice a week, visiting and spending a few hours not far away, at an address which Firmin believed to be that of a mistress…other than that, and with at least one evening a week out with the proper wife, he mostly spent the weekends at home. He had no known hobbies otherwise.

Maintenon’s eyebrows rose, but only so far upon reading that. It really did go with the territory, with a certain class of person. The working classes, the middle class really didn’t have the luxury, moral questions aside.

After some hours, Monsieur would return home by taxi, and as often as not, the Madame would be off on some engagement with the lady friends, a show, the cinema, and then there was her own lover, whom Firmin had actually seen rather than just surmised. While not exactly shy, in his observation, they were discreet in that the sort of clubs and watering-holes, the chic little bistros they frequented were small, out-of-the-way places in what might be considered the seedier parts of town.

Apparently the young man’s name was Victor, he was at least five years younger and maybe more. Firmin was almost certain he’d seen him somewhere before…if only he could recall.

Hopefully, Firmin would sit bolt upright in bed some night, at approximately two-thirty a.m., spit out the name and the date and the place, and say, yes! Until such time, it was merely an irritation, in his words.

He had only gotten real close to the pair once, and he’d gleaned at least this one shred of information. As forgettable as he was, (also in his own words), he could only do that so often before they spotted him.

And then there was Jardine. Who wasn’t all that interesting, and this was about when Sylvestre, sated with a tin of mackerel and a bowl of milk, jumped into his lap and began kneading his upper leg, purring, with love in his eyes and stopping for a moment to lick what sure looked like a cat-erection, with claws extended and with all the best of intentions.

Well.

It was good to know somebody cared.

Yes, poor old Jardine. With a half a weekday, and Sunday off, he would do minor errands on Thursdays, and then spend a quiet Sunday at what Firmin took to be the family home, where his mother and an older sister lived. The name Jardine beside the buzzer had been something of a clue. At some point after dinner, he’d take the bus and the Metro and be back at the Boitard residence by nine-thirty p.m. The lights on his little suite would go off shortly thereafter, and he’d be up by seven at the latest—with Firmin or somebody out there watching in the darkness or the dawn, and taking it all down on paper.

Insofar as they could be sure, he hadn’t been back to the Croix de Feu; and there were many questions to be answered there.

There were so many things left undone.

At the very least, they needed to talk to the older brother, off at University, if only to hear him talk and gain some kind of impression. He had, after all, been at home at the time of the killing.

There was Cynthie's diary, and the handwriting. Surely she must have written someone a letter, and then there was the head mistress at school. Surely she must have something to say—

Assuming they could hang onto Janine and Hermione, he’d put them on to it first thing Monday morning.

That would be one more list, and a shit-load of phone calls. Hopefully, they would get something.

The odds were, it would be fruitless and yet for the sake of thoroughness, it would have to be done…if nothing else, it justified hanging onto Janine and Hermione just a little bit longer.

Fuck.

It was about then, that Gilles had fallen asleep in his chair.

END

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