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| Quick and casual. |
Louis Shalako
LeBeaux befriends a hermit. The thought brought a wry grin.
If only he knew what he was doing. If only he could pull it off.
It was simple enough, really. LeBeaux had stopped at a little crossroads, a hamlet, with a store, a veranda, a single pair of petrol pumps out front and not much else, and had picked up a few small things. He had two brown paper shopping bags absolutely jammed full of groceries. The pockets of his rough plaid hunting jacket were fairly well stocked as well. He’d taken the time beforehand, to peel off a few small bills and stash them in a side pocket, rather than pulling out the whole big wad, big enough to choke a horse. This was a phrase which was right out of an old Zane Grey western, or was it block a stovepipe, one or the other. A big wad of bills would have aroused curiosity and possible comment. It was infinitely better to be forgotten. Thieves lived in the country too, and muggings were not exclusively a big-city problem. Any good cop should know that. There were crimes of opportunity everywhere and there were some very bright people in the world. There were plenty of wise guys as well.
And then there was him.
And then there was this—
Seeing the opportunity, he had taken a quick look around, and then, bending over, he had stuffed the right pant leg down the top of his sock.
Straightening up, he took another relaxed kind of glance around. The whole thing had been surprisingly easy.
He had shamelessly stolen an unlocked bicycle from a rack in front of the train station, a red one, using it to make a casual escape. It was the first couple of hundred metres that were the worst. It was like someone’s eyes were boring a hole in your back, right between the shoulder blades. No one had uttered a peep or given him a second glance. It had gone off without a hitch. Éliott had gotten ten or fifteen kilometres down the road, huffing and puffing along as best he could, before ditching it under a culvert. With the name of the village, and a good memory, he could always mail a brief note, a little map, an apology, some small compensation for the victim, down to the local police department. Fifty francs might atone for a lot of sins, especially if they were lucky and got their bicycle back. This time of year, the sun was up pretty early. At that time of day, the roads had been mostly deserted, except for the occasional farm vehicle. People were busy on their own business and not too interested in nondescript young men on bicycles. People barely looked at him, or so it would seem. A man on a tractor, working in a field, would be intent enough on following the furrows and besides there was the sheer distance from the road.
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| "Ah, bonjour, Monsieur." |
Yes, and when he’d parked it out in front of the general store, his first thought had been thieves—but there had been no one about.
He’d hoofed it most of the way after ditching the bike, lucky to hitch a ride the last few kilometres or he would have been in a lot worse shape. As it was, the boots were slowly breaking in and the sore spots were still tolerable.
Cheap boots, and what can you say—the thing was to avoid blisters, at almost any cost.
Once a blister popped and leaked out that thin fluid, it was ten times worse and took forever to heal.
He had stopped at the store, gotten another two or three kilometres away, and then stood at the roadside and stuck his thumb out, shopping bags beside him, going mostly on hope and dreams at that point. His luck had held and the second vehicle to come along had pulled over and offered a ride.
He’d asked to be let out of the vehicle a couple of kilometres down the road from his destination, just to break the trail. He’d cooked up a story along the way, claiming he was heading for his elderly Aunt Minnie’s house, just around the corner as he claimed without being too specific, and the driver was turning off the other way anyhow. It was a hell of a lot better than hiking down the railroad tracks, which were all too easily predictable. It wouldn’t have taken Hubert very long to miss him, or to guess where he was going.
What he had, was a short window of opportunity. The object of the game was to disappear. He’d have to avoid Luchon like the plague, and that went without saying. Yet he had plenty of money, and there would be other unlocked bikes out there. Rural villages weren’t all that far apart. There would be other friendly motorists, perhaps. It was not like he couldn’t just buy another bicycle in a village fifteen or twenty kilometres away. An officer did have the right to commandeer—things, or even people, if necessary.
After the long hike in, the arms and shoulders just ached. It was one hell of a load, especially for paper bags, all laminated double layers as they were, and he was grateful that it was at least dry in terms of the weather. What he might have done if one of the bags had broken was a question he had contemplated deeply, all the while praying for his luck to hold on just a little bit longer.
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| "Oooh. Commandeer me, Baby." |
He’d chosen the bait with care. He had a dozen eggs, a full kilo of fresh-cut bacon, all in one big slab. He’d carefully considered the eggs, but two or three small hens wouldn’t produce that many eggs on a weekly basis. That seemed logical. A short string of sausages, hard and dry. He’d focused on things that would keep for a couple of days without refrigeration. A couple of onions, tinned potatoes, which he wasn’t too fond of, but at least they didn’t need peeling. They were all right for frying in the pan, alongside the bacon. He had tinned beans, he had a fresh loaf. Cheese. He had sardines and soup. Jam and butter. He had a tin of instant coffee, the same brand they used at home, some sugar, and condensed milk. Biscuits. A couple of apples and a couple of oranges. He’d bought a few chocolate bars and a bag of knock-off corn-chips; another one of those wonderful American inventions. He had put some thought into just what a hermit might like to eat, what he might reasonably be able to cook in there, and also what he would like to drink the most. And, like a true professional, he was still saving his receipts.
Hopefully, he could put his hand on the Bible, swear an oath, and justify it all in the end.
He’d put himself into the mind of his prey, which accounted for the bottle of cognac and the three small boxes of thin, black cheroots. He’d made sure to grab a big box of kitchen matches, and couple of rolls of toilet paper.
The real weight was made up of four very large bottles of a local beer, one and a half litres each, replete with easy-open, flip-top caps. Fuck, he had a couple of tin cups, a wash-cloth, soap, everything, including a thin, knit turtleneck sweater that might be a little big on the man as he remembered him, but that would be much better than too small. That and three pairs of fresh socks—one of which was for him, and hopefully, sooner rather than later. A man like that might kill for fresh socks and a nice, new sweater.
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| Just a tiny little place. |
He’d stopped at another little crossroads, a tiny little hamlet with its one and only store, just at the last minute, in sheer inspiration, picking up a razor, a pair of scissors, and one or two other little things that might be of interest to a person living rough.
And in the final, pièce de résistance, a cheap little mouth organ, which he would hopefully remember how to play.
He’d even picked out his first song.
He’d been wearing the more casual clothes on the train, even the boots. Hubert had made no mention of it, accepting it at face value, and in fact Hubert had ditched the suit himself, although he had also foregone the boots. It helped to blend in, or so he had told himself. Just another farm labourer, on a bicycle, going off to scythe some hay or whatever. Or should that be sickle—
All he had to do now was to make the approach.
The day was warm, it was coming up on high noon, yet this time he knew his way. There was a breeze, and it had been dry for a while. The biting insects were much in abeyance, and for that he was truly grateful. Even the birds were being quiet, this time of day.
The trail turned to mud again, a little drier now and then there was the cliff.
It was only just around the corner now, and he approached cautiously, silently, like some frontiersman stalking deer or wild Indians…like Davey fucking Crockett, and that was something to contemplate.
To be caught, to be confronted would be disaster, and he listened carefully, to the sound of water in the background. He could hear the chickens, but no one was splitting kindling or anything like that. There were no voices. There were no lorries, or tractors off in the distance. It was so quiet, he could hear the gentle breeze in the treetops above, and a pair of dry leaves, stubborn holdovers from last year, knocking together closer to the ground.
He might be able to talk himself out of trouble. No, the trouble, the real trouble, was that he needed to talk his way in.
He stuck close to the cliff-face. He had a peek around some thin saplings, fully in bud. The door and the window were closed. A small padlock was on the door. This seemed to confirm that there was no one home, and therein lay danger as well. It hadn’t really occurred to him, but what if the fellow had gone away and wasn’t coming back. This was not a good thought, to be sure.
The guy could also be coming along from behind him, and he would never hear him or see him coming. There was also that fucking shotgun—
Staying as low and as quiet as possible, he put the bags down a metre in front of the door.
The hermit could not miss them.
Turning and moving as quickly and as quietly as possible, with his trusty map in his pocket, he got the hell out of there. He could only hope the hermit wasn’t coming home along this particular trail, just around the next corner, but he had something of a plan and it was going well enough. He tried to stand up straight, and not look too furtive. Furtive was bad.
Walk like you own the place.
He even knew where he was going—
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| Rugged indeed. |
The next two hundred metres were crucial, just getting away from the scene of the crime so to speak, and then he could circle around through the woods, using dead reckoning, and come right back in a kind of fish-hook maneuver. He would belly-crawl the last fifty metres when it came right down to it. Right about then, he was grateful for good eyes and even better hearing, he had that much going for him. He had his wits, and he would find a place. Hell, he’d even been a Scout, with nineteen merit badges—if he couldn’t do this, no one could.
Then, he would watch and he would wait.
The bait was set, the trap would be sprung, and he had his plan all worked out. It would all work out—
He just knew it.
END
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| "Louis really needs to write that last chapter, folks." |
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