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

Louis Shalako

Having collared the suspects, Margot and Pelletier would be handling their interviews, and then the prisoners would be transported to the court building, where they could consult with their lawyers, and then they would face their bail hearings.

It would be the usual practice, of not letting them see each other, even though they’d been arrested together. They could sit there alone in their little cell and each would wonder if the other guy was talking…and who would be the first, (or the last), to rat the other person off. They might also be thinking of their jobs, or paying the rent, or the girlfriend, mom and pop, a kid, whatever. All they would get was one phone call—a phone call which would be precious and not to be wasted.

And a weekend, that was a long time in a jail cell, with plenty of time for the imagination to work on that guilty conscience, assuming they had a conscience at all.

Assuming they had any brains at all—

Janine had over five years of experience, and other than the actual investigative bits, her big job right now was to read the sergeant’s manual. For Hermione, with less than six months of experience, the most basic training in investigation was the priority. That being said, she’d been through the general police course and was a rookie constable in good standing with the department. If nothing else, she’d made it through the probationary period. One must presume some kind of promotion, some kind of more regular assignment would be forthcoming in due course. Why not just go ahead and do that…he could make her a constable, first class, with the resulting increase in pay…what with her new responsibilities and also her sheer usefulness. Most newbies ended up on the beat straight away, albeit working with a much more senior partner. The beat—the beat, foot patrol, was the most basic and straightforward beginning to a career one could imagine, but it didn’t always happen that way. Janine’s experience was mostly administrative, and she was very good at it. She’d also been drafted in on the occasional investigation, and had very much impressed him at the time.

However.

For the moment, they could stand there very quietly, observing through the one-way glass, with Margot the supreme professional, taking on Monsieur Genovy, who seemed to be the more hard-bitten of their two subjects and the older by ten years or so.

Her scent was a little more subdued this morning, as they watched in some fascination.

Hermione would speak, or whisper, only when spoken to and only if an answer was definitely required.

Gilles would keep the instruction to a minimum, which kept their noise down, and he wouldn’t be stomping all over the audio-feed, and right when something interesting was happening, which wasn’t much so far—

It happened often enough.

“I don’t have to say one word, detective.”

"I don't have to say one word..."

“No, sir. That is perfectly true, Monsieur Genovy. I am an ethical investigator, but then I suppose I have to be—what with having one strike already against me just for being a woman. And you know all about Maintenon, whose prime directive, for himself and everybody else in the Special Homicide Unit, is to get the right guy—or get nobody at all, and just, quite frankly, leaving the damned case open.”

Homicide cases were never closed, not before they were solved, charged, convicted…

“Huh.”

“If you really are in trouble, the best possible thing from your perspective, would be to keep your mouth shut, and I understand that very well. Perhaps even sympathize on some human level. My job, is to protect, and to serve, Monsieur. That is why I am here, after all, and if I could help in any way, assuming you play straight with us, I will do just that. You have my word on that. Also. You will have a chance to speak to your avocat before the bail hearing. No, the real question is, how much trouble are you actually in? And is all of this really justified, er, assuming you haven’t done anything really wrong. Right? Perhaps more of a material witness, hopefully not too adversarial—what they call an unfriendly witness. Or maybe you just don’t know anything at all, in which case we would owe you one hell of an apology. Right, Monsieur?’

“Hmn. I suppose so—what are you getting at.”

“Why were you transferred to the late shift in the kitchen? Did you request it, or did Fritz or somebody want you, specifically, or were they just trying to replace someone who wasn’t working out—surely they must have given you some sort of explanation.” On the face of it, the simplest, most prosaic of questions, and what harm could it do—

Monsieur Genovy took a big, long breath, and considered the situation.

He sort of slumped in the chair.

“What’s it going to be? I can send you over to the courthouse, if you prefer. If all you’re doing is sitting and waiting, one place is as good as any other.”

“Huh.”

She smiled, and patted his arm as he sort of froze and stared at her hand, transfixed, and then the eyes came back up to her.

“Would you like a cigarette? A cup of coffee?’

Gilles held his breath—

This was the psychological moment, no matter which way it went.

It seemed hopeful, and they also had Duquesne.

Waiting in the wings as it were, and what a stroke of luck that they’d been taken together.

It was just one of his little theories, but two were always easier to crack than one.

“…well. Honestly, I really don’t know anything. I really couldn’t tell you what was going on…if anything, and not for sure…”

“Okay. I can accept that. What about the shift change, what can you tell me about that? I mean, it’s not exactly illegal…right?”

Reaching into a pocket, Margot pulled a pack of Gitanes and a lighter, borrowed, but cigarettes nevertheless.

“Go ahead, take your time. You’ll be out on bail by this afternoon, most likely. At least that’s what I’m thinking.”

Thoughtfully, Monsieur Genovy reached over and accepted a cigarette.

***

Pelletier was just getting started on his interview with Monsieur Duquesne when there came a faint knock on the door of the observation cubicle.

The door opened and Firmin stuck his head in.

“Gilles..?”

“Ah, Firmin.” He turned to Hermione. “You might as well stay and observe.”

She nodded, wordlessly, as the interviews had been interesting enough so far.

Very quietly, Gilles shut the door and followed Firmin to the room, eyes on the large brown envelope in his left hand.

“Okay. So, what have you got for me?”

Gilles took a seat, and Firmin perched on the corner of Pelletier’s desk.

“Okay. So, you remember how I told you Louise Boitard had a lover—or at the very least, a young man in attendance at certain times when she is away from the home.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I also mentioned that he seemed familiar.”

“Right.”

“It struck me that I don’t get out that much. Not when I’m not at work or on the job. Also, this guy is not a nephew or a cousin or just someone from the neighbourhood. This is not some guy I saw across a room, last time the wife and I went out.”

“Okay. So, let’s cut to the chase.”

Detective Margot, the supreme professional.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get there. It also struck me; that I am a police officer in the homicide business…and that seeing him on the job, was the most likely possibility. The only real problem was which job it was.” Pausing, he opened up the top of the envelope and slid the photos out. “I think you will remember this guy very well.”

And with good reason—

Victor.

Victor Baille.

The Victor. The Victor that had been there, the day when Gilles and Hector Vachon had been having a nice, nostalgic little lunch at the old watering hole, the one from their younger days. The very same Victor that had been at a nearby table with a pair of other males, and Hector had taken a few surreptitious frames of the men, once he registered that Gilles knew something, in fact Gilles had recognized Victor right off the bat that day—the very same Victor who worked in the office of the Croix de Feu, and who was, in fact, responsible for some of the very same membership lists they had been going through the past few days.

The same Victor who had disappeared off the face of the Earth, as had the two other suspects in the brutal stabbing of his good friend Hector, photographer, journalist, and acknowledged artist of the graphic arts…a killing that had happened a few blocks up the street, and only minutes after they had parted.

The photo had been circulated all over the place, and naturally Firmin had seen it.

“How often do they go out?”

Firmin knew what he meant.

“Oh, once or twice a week.”

“Do they always go to the same places?”

“No, not really. So far, they have never gone to the same place twice, Gilles.”

“Do they ever meet in daylight? Or just at night.”

“So far, it’s been evening, sometimes fairly late-night hours, although the lady is usually home before midnight, Gilles…”

“Hmn.” Maintenon stared at the photograph, three faces, two oblivious and the third one had clearly caught Vachon in the act. “I would very much like to speak to this man, all of them really.”

Firmin gave a taut little grin.

“I kind of figured you would.”

Gilles gave a quick little nod.

“I want you to pick him up at the first opportunity—keep an eye out for these other two faces as well. Maybe we can get some names out of our good friend Victor…try and get him without Louise knowing about it…”

“Ah—an interesting point.” Firmin—

Maybe they could get a little justice for Hector, whose murder remained unsolved, with zero suspects and therefore zero prospects of a charge and conviction…

“Tactics.”

“Sure. Ah—”

Right about then Janine, who had also been involved in that case as he recalled, entered the room with her book in hand and reading glasses dangling on a strap about the neck.

“Show her the picture.”

“Right. Ah, Constable Lacorse. We were wondering, by any chance, if you should recognize this man…”

One look was all it took—at the time, Gilles had wondered at her interest, but of course Victor was a fairly handsome young man, personable, well-dressed, very competent, and one who sort of stuck in the mind—as she quickly proved.

“Yes. That’s him all right.” Victor Baille—

“Oh, there’s one more thing, Gilles. There’s a young guy down in the catacombs—Criminal Records and Archives. He seems terribly bored by the whole thing, and he really was helpful. Got a mind like a steel trap, and I have the impression he doesn’t just file things, Gilles. He’s so fucking bored he reads a lot of this stuff, and the truth is, he might even be a fan of yours. I told him what I was looking for and he, quite literally, went straight for it. He nailed it, Gilles, it was in the second drawer we looked in…”

“Bored, eh. All right. Give me his name, and I will think about it.”

“Absolutely. And for the time being, I will be sticking to Madame Boitard like fucking glue…Hector was as much a friend of mine as yours, and I reckon Roger would absolutely shit himself if we could get a hold of those guys…”

Firmin sure as hell had that one right.

“You’ll need a little help on this one—our little Victor may have killed Hector, in any case there is the possibility of violence. Whatever game Victor is playing, the stakes are big and he’s obviously involved in something, either this or that; or maybe something else.”

“Janine.”

“Yes, Detective Firmin.”

“What are you doing tonight after work, anyways.”

She shrugged expressively.

“Oh, nothing much. What did you have in mind?”

“How about a couple of drinks, some light food—and we catch this bastard and toss him in the cells until he squawks.”

She looked into Maintenon’s eyes.

She turned back to Firmin.

“All right. Count me in.”

“Congratulations, on your first plain-clothes assignment.” Gilles—

“Uh-huh.”

She would already be thinking of what to wear, which would go about double for the shoes, but in any case that was their problem and Gilles had other things to think about.

“Thank you—I guess.”

It was as good an answer as any.

END

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