Dead Reckoning, Chapter Twenty-One. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Their next stop was to Madame d’Coutu’s new place of employment, the result of some simple telephone work, and the lady would be expecting them at some point in the morning. For whatever reason, traffic was sheer hell this morning. It was halfway across town.

Good old Alphonse, sitting bored in the vehicle, had been listening with the radio actually turned up for a change, (rather than having it down real low and simply ignoring it), and had taken the call while they were inside the store. One more hit on their planted news story, and now they had another little errand on their plate. He had it all down in his own notebook, in writing that was surprisingly legible. Knowing Alphonse, he would have taken his sweet time with it.

Things were looking up.

And of course, Yvonne wasn’t too happy to see them. Truth was, they were late, and an appointment was an appointment. Real gentlemen would have been punctual above all else. For her, it was just so much bother, and she wasn’t shy about telling them that, either. She’d had one or two calls from the reporters, and she was still spitting mad about those people as she called them. It was also the height of embarrassment for an honest working woman to be visited by the police. Especially as her lady had been out all morning and had arrived home at exactly the wrong time and naturally, she had questions. One could only sympathize, not that it had done much good. For the working classes, to be out of work for any length of time would very shortly lead to personal disaster and naturally the police understood that. The dress was shapeless, the hair grey-brown and mousy, and there were lines around the eyes and the mouth. One wondered if she had smiled in days.

Hubert doubted if the lady had been out of work more than two or three days, what with having signed on with an employment agency and all. Still, one had to listen for a while out of politeness. Funny thing was, she seemed to have done all right with her current assignment, one wondered if she saw that much herself. Three times the size of Maintenon’s place, bright and airy and well-lit, the paint was the work of professional decorators rather than a mom-and-pop project. Hopefully, her current boss-woman wasn’t a real tyrant.

They were in the kitchen of a fine old flat, in a very fashionable part of the city, with the cook and the maid having made themselves scarce, and the lady of the house sort of fussing and fuming in the sitting room out front.

So far, she hadn’t been of much help, but then it had always been a long shot.

“Anyways. I’ve told you everything I know.” She was adamant, and her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall.

Having lost her previous employment, through no fault of her own and at some inconvenience to herself, she had only reluctantly given up the key to Maintenon’s apartment. The three of them were seated around the kitchen table…

Hubert, known for a certain charm of his own, was doing his best to soothe her down.

“Naturally we understand, Madame, and of course we understand your feelings…”

He patted her forearm and she snatched it away. It was all he could do, just to try again.

“Now, is there any little thing, any funny little detail, anything that might have struck you about those men, ah, that afternoon.”

“No. Not really.” She’d just taken her one-hour lunch break, gotten back to work on the dot of one o’clock, and she had been dusting and sweeping, just thinking about her shopping list, (and killing time strategically, or so he thought), when the knock had come at the door.

There was nothing new in any of this, it was all in the original report. It was time to call it a day with this one. Neither one of them had ever met the lady, and whatever ideas one may have had about the typical housekeeper, Yvonne had turned out to be a harried woman, old-before-her-time and with few skills and perhaps not too many friends. Unmarried, her only emotional outlet would be a cat and perhaps her sister’s children and grandchildren. That and a lot of knitting.

“Hmn. Okay. Would you mind taking a look at this photograph, please. Do you recognize any of the men in this picture.”

“Non.”

“Are you certain? Not even the slightest resemblance?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

Hubert picked a random face and brought it in a little closer.

“This man?”

She shook her head.

“Or this one?”

“No.”

“What about this one—” Monsieur Samaha.

Again, she said no.

“…or this one…”

“No.”

“Okay.” Taking a different tack, he mentioned that the cat, Sylvestre, was being well looked-after, and she made a face but said nothing.

The cat was no longer any problem of hers, and that seemed clear enough.

“Also, Madame, we have been wondering, well, if you have been paid, that is to say all caught up in terms of your employment at the Maintenon household…er.”

She flushed, went rigid, and then allowed that she had, in fact, been paid, in full, in advance, up to the end of the month by the inspector. This was before he went down south. Gilles hadn’t even been gone a week, but as soon as she’d heard the news, she had bolted for new employment.

“What would you have had me do?” Although she seemed a little nicer now, and the truth was, she might even owe Gilles a fair chunk of money in purely legalistic terms.

The lady didn’t actually come out and say that part, but it was a fair inference and no big revelation, personality-wise. It might explain her whole demeanour so far, what with having a conscience after all, a little touch of the guilt, and this in what could only be assumed to be a good Catholic. Especially if one got caught—

He nodded sagely, resisting the urge to try patting her on the arm again.

“Okay. Well, thank you, Madame, we will not waste any more of your precious time.” A thought struck him. “Normally, people would get severance pay anyways…and the circumstances are nothing if not unusual, right?”

He could see her consider it, latching on to it perhaps.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, really, but they’d had no option but to try her out.

He snapped the notebook closed, preparing to rise.

“There is one thing, though.”

“Oh? What’s that Madame.”

“It’s about the name on the coveralls. I distinctly remember now—it was Montgolfier Brothers.” She gave a firm nod and that was that—

Right up until the point when you realized she’d been lining the bottom of the birdcage, budgie-birds or parakeets, or something very much like that and quite musical…and that sure looked like a page from Le Temps in there.

It was hard to say if she was being deliberately obtuse, or maybe she was just genuinely stupid—she hadn’t mentioned Gilles by name in the entire time they’d been there, admittedly that really hadn’t been very long at all. It was like she had problems of her own and simply didn’t give a damn—

They clambered to their feet, repressing deep sighs or any expression at all.

Sometimes it was all one could do, but to remain polite, perhaps even gracious.

“Thank you, Madame d’Coutu. We are, of course, very grateful for your time.”

The poor woman had been alone in that kitchen, for at least some time, with a freezer full of dead people. That had to be taken into account as well—of course she had fucking well run for it, and who could blame her. It was perfectly understandable, and no shame in that. Except in the mind of the lady herself. It was a story she would tell and retell, and it would no doubt grow into something quite extraordinary over the years.

He really should have told her all of that, but, the problem was that the words just wouldn’t come out.

***

It was almost like they were getting somewhere.

“Yes, sir, we made the patches here. Montgolfier Brothers. They ordered a dozen patches, and paid cash up front. I’d never heard of them, we’ve never dealt with them, and they had no account. Our policy is clear on that.” Monsieur Renaud was the owner and manager of a very small factory, a sweat-shop, with about a dozen women at sewing machines in a loft on the eastern outskirts of the city. “A Monsieur Bisson. He came in person. A rather ordinary fellow, middle-aged, slight of build, average height and average weight. Well-dressed. A small mustache, hair fairly light but not real blond if you know what I mean…”

He thought further.

“Oh. Little round black glasses. The hair was combed straight up and over. I looked it up, that was about May twenty-first.” The gentleman had worn a hat, but he’d taken it off while coming in the door.

“Ah, I was just going to ask.”

The big, open room was on the top floor and very warm, although every window in the place seemed to be open. A fly buzzed here and there, curious and hungry, or maybe even just friendly, as Hubert brushed one off of the tip of his nose. The thing seemed to be in love with him—

He could feel the sweat all right, running down inside the shirt and he wondered how they did it sometimes.

The office itself was a glassed-in enclosure, where the employees were never out of sight, and neither was the boss. It was a little quieter in there with the door closed, with a fan to at least stir the air a little. Sewing wash-cloths and hemming hand-towels and fucking tea-towels for a centime apiece and things like that…cash paid daily, or so it said on a sign down below at street level.

No wonder the working classes were unhappy.

Without much hope, he pulled out the picture and let the man have a look at it.

“Do you recognize any of these men? Does anyone in particular look familiar? What about this one…or this one…or this one here…?” It was an old and familiar routine.

The gentleman took a moment to study it carefully.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid not.”

And in this particular case, not much joy to be had. It was routine police work, nothing more, nothing very exciting and not all that informative in terms of solving cases.

Perhaps sensing their disappointment, and wishing to be helpful, the gentleman spoke.

“Would you like to see how they are made?”

Apparently, they had an automated embroidering machine, which worked off of punch-card type templates and they could produce team and commercial patches in many fonts and sizes. These ranged from name patches on a mechanic’s work shirt to shoulder patches and breast patches, hat-badges, for police, fire, ambulance, sports teams and commercial enterprises all over the city. They could use any colour of thread, in any combination, and promised two-day completion on the smaller orders. The bigger the order, the steeper the discount. Custom design was a specialty.

Martin Garnier gave him a nod. What the hell, they had nothing to lose but time.

“Sure, why not. We’d be delighted.” Think of it as good public relations, or planting the seeds  tomorrow’s success today.

Not everyone was so willing to talk to the police and that sort of thing ought to be encouraged. It was a small place, the machine was right there, and it really didn’t take all that long. With an assistant, and at least one damned sharp mind, the pair had quickly thrown in a few steel letters in a particular font, changed a couple of spools of thread, cut a patch of flannel, a simple rectangle, clamped all that in place, and set the machine to work. They watched, open-mouthed, and finally, switching off, the fellow reached in with scissors, snipped a few extraneous threads, and pulled out a long, skinny patch, all set to be sewn on to a garment.

Montgolfier Brothers.

Nice.

The gentleman handed it over with a nod and a smile.

“And there you have it…”

“Thank you for the tour.” If nothing else, they had another pretty generic description of another suspect, and a name which would probably turn out to be bullshit. “I have to admit, that was all very interesting.”

They would have an odd little exhibit to show off when they got back to the room.

Martin wasn’t trying to be smart, but to see a little follower-thingy, a vertical rod on the end of an arm, tracing an outline on a row of steel templates on the one side, and the needles going up and down, tukka-tukka-tukka-tukka, around and around on a piece of fabric on the other side, and seeing the letters appear in three colours, as the whole apparatus sort of slid along on tracks above it; on a patch of felt, (or whatever), was fascinating enough in its own way.

At least he thought so—

It was all very illuminating.

END

Previous.

 

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

 

Thank you for reading. 

 

 

Dead Reckoning, Chapter Twenty. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

“Ah, merci, Madame.” So she spoke French after all, which shouldn’t have been a surprise considering the polyglot nature of the immediate neighbourhood.

The shop right next door had signs in what looked like Chinese characters, which should have been some kind of a clue, and there was a Greek restaurant just down the block. Hubert had even been in there once or twice, years ago, and he might have even recommended it, unfortunately it was just a bit early for lunch.

Hubert was beginning to wonder where the man was, maybe they’d caught him in a nap, or just as likely, taking a good dump. There was the sound of hard shoes on wooden stairs and there he was after the curtains parted with a twitch and a discernable swish from the little roller hangers that it hung upon. Monsieur Omar was clad in a white shirt with long sleeves, a waistcoat in grey with pale pin-stripes and the traditional red Fez hat with a black tassel. Plain, darker grey trousers of a shapeless nature and scuffed black shoes rounded out the ensemble.

“Ah, gentlemen, gentlemen.” He beckoned. “Won’t you please step into my office. We can speak privately there, and the customers really don’t need to know there are police officers in my little store—”

He smiled at his own joke. They smiled right back, as best they could, still, there was something in the air—call it hope, thought Hubert.

That seemed fair enough, and hopefully their trip would be worthwhile. His accent was fairly tolerable, when one took into account that he had grown up with another language, one which would impose its own sort of effects on the second, and presumably, any other languages he might pick up. Hubert had been expecting a tiny damp cinderblock booth of a room, with a huddle and a muddle of papers, a sagging swivel stool and boxes of product stacked sky-high. It wasn’t quite that bad. There was room for a desk, a few chairs, a low couch, and a big metal filing cabinet among other things. As they entered, a little bell rang, probably connected to the front door, and it seemed he would know when a customer entered if he was working alone. Even the bulletin board, with its contractor and supplier business cards pinned along the right hand margin, seemed to be organized. There was a calendar, a telephone on the desk, decent lighting, and it all seemed very professional.

A younger woman, slender and anonymous in the garb, came in with coffee, and their new friend waved her away, but leaving the door open to catch a little more air.

“Okay, gentlemen. You’re interested in an unusual sale of ice, ice cubes in paper sacks.” He explained that some folks still had the old ice-boxes, where a solid block of ice, better yet, two or three, would be enough to keep food cool and from spoiling, for at least a day, or two, possibly three if the people didn’t open up the box very often, also, just how full of stuff it was.

“So, somebody came in and bought fifteen bags, ice cubes you said on the phone.”

“Yes. Abu.” He picked up a framed photograph laying on the desk.

He waved them in closer, pointing at one face in particular. It was a team photo, a football club, wearing their numbered jerseys, shorts, long socks with stripes at the top, and their cleated shoes. They had a banner and a small trophy. The whole bunch were smiling, or waving and yelling at the camera.

“This guy, eh?” Garnier held the photo in the light.

The face seemed ordinary enough. He didn’t even look all that foreign, not these days, not in this city. A mop of longish dark hair, and a mustache, not huge, but kind of curled and pointed on the ends. He appeared to be of average height and build, judging by the men around him.

“And you’re sure it was him? Second row, fourth from the left?”

“Uh, huh.” He cleared his throat. “I’d know him anywhere. We played together, ah, for about a season. We came in second place in our division. He’s not a bad player, actually.”

Hence the photo, and the trophy, and squinting, a date two years previous was visible, scrawled on an upper corner. The man explained further, but it was a league and everything. Strictly amateur stuff, still, there were passions, and rivalries, and everyone wanted to win. It was the love of the game that brought them together, and sometimes, it was what drove them apart. He still played, Thursday nights and Sunday afternoons, and they had practice on Sunday mornings.

“If nothing else, it gets me out of the store for a while.” While he owned the building and the family lived in the rooms above, the truth was, he spent an awful lot of time in that store.

“And you say he was wearing the coveralls.”

“Oui, Monsieur. I thought he was legitimately working. Now I know better.” He bit his lip. “Montgolfier Brothers. At the time, I thought, it was, er—how do you say it. A cute name for a company. It was convincing enough.”

“Did you speak to him? Did he seem to recognize you?”

“Interesting. He didn’t talk much, and I had no reason to get too involved. We had other customers in the store. He had another fellow with him, ah—also in the coveralls, and they basically paid cash, small bills, and took the bags, two or three at a time, out to the vehicle. It was a blue van with signs on the side.” He thought for a moment. “Did he recognize me? It’s certainly possible. I recognized him, after all. If so, he made no real reaction…not really.”

“And when was this?”

“Going by the newspaper, the morning of the crime. About noon, perhaps a little before.”

The detectives nodded at that.

“With your permission. We’d very much like to borrow this for a while.” Garnier.

“You’ll get it back, of course.” Hubert—

“But of course, gentlemen. Ah—was there anything else?”

“Does this man have a last name?”

“Oh. Yes. Sorry! Samaha. Abu Samaha. He was boarding with a family, ah, but I can’t say whether he might still be there.” He’d never known their name, but it was in Montmartre, in what was probably, going by the description, another low-income area, and another prime candidate for both immigrants, and the more bougie types looking for a bargain, a fixer-upper as it was called.

“…and what about the other man, can you describe him.” Garnier. “Did you hear him talk, did he have an accent, that sort of thing…”

“Fairly ordinary, middling height and weight. Maybe early thirties. Dark hair, clean shaven. Ah, dark eyes—that’s about it, gentlemen. He really didn’t say much, I had the impression he was a helper.” Abu was the one with the money, right.

“Did they have name-tags, on the breast pocket or anything like that?”

“Ah. No. Interesting—”

Just another detail, but it added to the overall picture.

“Okay. So, how do you guys get new team members? How is it organized?” Hubert wasn’t all that much into football.

“Ah. The club secretary puts an ad in the paper. People telephone, they inquire, people come and try out at the beginning of the good weather. Understand, we’re filling holes in the roster at this point. Most of us, not everyone, but we are back, year after year. If we do sign them up, there’s a small fee that everyone pays. Truth is, we simply can’t take everyone who wants to play—ah, we all pitch in on the fuel for a road game, that sort of thing. The fee basically covers the trophies, the, uh, engraving, and a little party for the awards ceremony. Nothing too spectacular, just a buffet with light snacks and so forth.” They played in public parks for a small fee, the schedule made up by the organization.

One of the members owned a popular restaurant, and the big banquet room, one night a year, was free for the asking. He put on a pretty good spread, buffet-style, self-serve, according to Khalid, and the organization paid for it at little better than cost and a gratuity for the staff involved. The men brought the wives and girlfriends, and it made for a pretty good night out; and, uh, what the hell—it was only once a year.

“I see. Thank you.” Hubert grinned at the observation.

The little flashes of personality were interesting, and Muslim ladies liked a night out once in a while, just like anyone else—who knew, right? It’s not like he’d ever thought to ask.

“Do you know if Abu had a driver’s license? Anything like that? Would you know where he might have worked?” Martin was trying to be as thorough as possible, which recent events had shown to be a necessity.

“Ah. I think not—the only way I have any idea of where he lived, was that the coach was dropping us off after an out-of-town game. The team has a rickety old bus and I suppose it’s better than everyone taking a taxi, cheaper, anyways, when you consider the whole bunch of us. I think he worked in some service industry somewhere—a building cleaner or something fairly menial like that.” That was it, and it was all the man had.

He sat there, hands folded across his belly, nodding affably, his eyes straying to the coffee, as yet untouched.

“Well, thank you, thank you very much. This may be very helpful to us.” Hubert paused.

“Ah. As it is written. The Law is like a stream of water, it brings life.”

“Hmn. Nice. The Koran, I presume?”

“Yes, in the very words of the Prophet himself.” He cleared his throat, hesitating—

“And?”

“And. The truth is, I didn’t like Abu very much. I don’t think he liked me all that much either, and yet we didn’t hate each other. He could be…brash. Rude, especially on the field. It’s not helpful when one player thinks he’s the star. I passed the ball to him one time, when he was in the perfect position to score. And he missed the ball. What bothered me was the way he talked to me afterwards, like it was all my fault. Honestly, it was a perfect pass and he just missed it. We couldn’t afford to hate each other, not while being on the same team. This might explain why he didn’t make a big fuss of recognizing me. Just one of those personality things, but I have learned to trust my instincts. First impressions can sometimes be wrong, but in his case, I think not. It is wrong, to wish ill for any man. Yet it is also very much human.” He nodded. “Also, if he has committed a crime against the society of man, and therefore, against the society of God, then he must be caught and punished. It is only right and just, after all.”

“Just a thought—do you have the phone number for your club secretary? Abu might have had other friends on the team, or perhaps he may have updated an address.” Hubert couldn’t think of too much else. “If someone hired Abu, for casual work or whatever, they might have hired one or two of his buddies as well…it’s just a possibility.”

“Ah, excellent idea. Yes, I have that.” He pulled a small black book from a side drawer and tore a sheet off a small note pad.

“Nice.” Garnier.

He put the name down in neat block letters, like a draftsman working on a set of building plans. Hubert reached and took a cup and sipped it appreciatively as Garnier carefully filed that away in his pocket.

“Ali—our secretary, will be able to give you gentlemen a list of the team members for that season or any season. All you have to do is to ask.”

“Wonderful.” It was all Hubert said.

Perhaps it was enough.

“Thank you, my young friends.” He put the tips of his fingers together. “It has been a pleasure.”

And on that note, it seemed they were off to their next destination. Martin took a moment to grab a pack of smokes, for Alphonse as he said, who might be suffering in that car all morning, if not all day long. Somewhere in the world, someone was always suffering, as Martin put it. Considering the fugue in there when they finally found the vehicle, two and a half blocks up the street, it might very well be them doing the suffering, certainly for the next little while…Hubert stood on the curb for a minute or two, vehicle door held wide open, waiting for some of the smoke to clear.

A blue cloud rolled off down the sidewalk.

Fuck.

On the other hand, they had at least gotten something.

END

 

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

 

Real Change is Incremental.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

 

Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dead Reckoning, Chapter Nineteen. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

Garnier put down the phone.

“Alphonse is out front.” Having brought the car around from the far end of the building, his more-or-less usual haunt, and about as far away from brass-hats and authority as it was possible to get without booking off or actual desertion...

He’d radio the desk and tell them to phone up, and with months to retirement and a don’t-give-a-damn attitude, he usually got his way.

It’s not like they didn’t know him down there; and if they didn’t know him, they sure as hell soon would.

The pair of them grabbed their hats and headed down to the street.

A couple of days had passed. Their newspaper story ploy seemed to have paid off, with at least a couple of tips. Only time would tell whether they would pan out. In the meantime, a certain amount of legwork was in order.

There was something different about Martin today, and for a detective, Hubert might have been a bit slow on the uptake, but the fellow really was in a suit and tie this morning.

“Hey. Did you pass the exam?”

“Huh. Not so far as I know.” They clattered down the stairs, with feet pounding and doors slamming and other people talking, all echoing round and round in the hard, narrow space. “It just seems justified in terms of today’s job…er, jobs.”

Hubert nodded.

There were times when the uniform was just a little too conspicuous.

“Well. You look good.” And it was true.

Garnier had worn the fairly standardized shiny black shoes, medium grey trousers, and a darker jacket. The shirt was a pale, creamy yellow and the tie a light tone of electric blue, matching the corner of a handkerchief sticking out of the left breast pocket…the hair was freshly slicked back and there was the faint aroma of aftershave. The slight bulge of a shoulder holster was almost invisible.

“They do say the clothes make the man.” Anyhow, there was the door, and the shiny black car with good old Alphonse at the wheel. “There’s only one way to find out.”

“After you.”

Someone just coming in held the door for them and they plunged out into the broad light of day.

***

It was a long drive across town, and they had a chance to talk outside of the confines of the office.

Hubert was gaining new respect. Garnier had plenty of thoughts. After a minor comedy of manners, Garnier had settled for the front seat and Hubert had taken the back as befitted his status or seniority or something. It was better than the three of them up front, and that was for sure. Let the junior man do all of the neck-craning. Sure enough, Martin was already twisting in his seat and now Hubert found himself leaning hard to the left in a kind of sympathetic reaction.

“I’ve been thinking. That delivery van still had the original license plates. That pretty much confirms that they must have hidden it away until the exact date. To do the actual job, the van is already loaded, with the freezer and the lid. The bodies are in another freezer. So now, we have two freezers. Big ones. Fuck—another potential lead, did someone buy two freezers at once sort of thing. Maybe they drove around somewhere and picked the corpsicles up that very morning. That would require some pretty good knowledge, or an appointment with somebody rather bent in their own right, and the odds are they had them already, right. What if they paid money for them? That leaves another loose end, for them and for us. They have the rugs all lined up on the floor, right. Roll them up like cigares-au-chou, good old cabbage rolls, and toss them in the back. All of this, preferably indoors at some private location. The actual driving, it’s only across town. A half an hour, forty-five minutes to the Inspector’s house, say. Maybe less, maybe even a lot less. It’s a question of exposure and time. It’s very rare for an officer to see a vehicle, to remember even one of a hundred license numbers and go from there. It’s a big town. There are so many auto-theft reports, so many numbers to remember. A driver would pretty much have to make some kind of a real bad mistake to get pulled over. The officer pulls them over, he radios in the license information…that’s really the only way they could ever get caught.” Leaving the vehicle outside, even on private property, seemed much less likely. “They had to stick the new signs on it, after all. The old signs would be in plain view. That might have drawn attention.”

Hubert nodded. The daily bulletins were chock-full of such license numbers, and vehicle descriptions, and while the police did make plenty of arrests based on such information, it was much more useful in identifying abandoned vehicles.

Not all car thieves were pros, there were plenty of youthful joy-riders as well. A vehicle simply abandoned by the side of the street might have a perfectly sensible reason for being there, having run out of gas, a breakdown, or whatever. If it was not on the list, an abandoned vehicle really only mattered to the parking-meter people.

“Well, let’s hope Alphonse doesn’t run out of cigarettes.”

Hubert grunted at that one—

“That’ll be the day.” He had a thought. “He’s been known to piss in here, you know, in an old soda bottle he keeps under the seat…”

And now it was Martin’s turn to grunt, a grunt of appreciation or so Hubert thought.

Alphonse, he was convinced, would never run out of cigarettes, and he’d probably have a pack in his pocket in his coffin, and might even sit bolt upright and light one up at his own funeral. They might as well throw the bottle in there as well, he thought as a quiet little grin stole over him…

Through it all, Alphonse ignored them, perhaps more pointedly than usual. Finally he spoke.

“All right, boys, here we are.” He pulled into the curb.

Turning, he impaled Garnier with a look.

“Corpsicles? Really?” He shook his head in faint disgust. “Cabbage rolls?”

Chuckling, Martin reached for the door handle.

Their first stop was to the corner store of one Khalid Omar, an Algerian, who according to their information, had been in the country for twenty years or more. He had a wife and children, an extensive family circle, and no known criminal associations.

He’d seen the story in the newspaper and had phoned it in, with Firmin taking the call.

The family lived over their store in the east end of the city, in the 20^th Arrondissement, Belleville-Père Lachaise, a working-class area with fairly low rents. It was becoming more popular and even showing signs of gentrification as younger and more prosperous folks bought up cheap properties and began fixing them up. On the side of the hill named Mont Louis after the King, was the largest cemetery in Paris, with millions of visitors a year. The cemetery itself had been named after Père Lachaise, a Jesuit priest and confessor to Louis XIV, a point which was largely irrelevant except in setting a certain tone. It was a mixed neighbourhood, one which was neither good nor bad. It simply was.

Slums and ghettos were better off kept small and scattered around, dispersed, rather than all concentrated into one, as Hubert had always thought—

After dropping them off at the door, Alphonse took the car down, or more accurately, up, the narrow street, looking for one of the ever-elusive parking spots, as the streets seemed to become more and more crowded with every passing day according to his own pithy observation.

The lady behind the counter was serving a customer, and, from just inside the door, they had a moment to observe.

They were conversing in a language neither man was familiar with. On the phone, the man had spoken pretty good French, albeit strongly accented according to Firmin.

Dressed in the long white haik, traditional dress of her people, her hair was covered and most of her face, with only the eyes, eyebrows and the bridge of the upper nose visible.

Those soft, dark eyes were all right, thought Hubert, and she didn’t seem fat or anything.

The little bell on the cash register jingled, the drawer closed with a clunk, and her customer lifted their package and turned to go. This was when she became aware of them, even as a pair of young children played on a colourful rug on the floor, at one end of the open space behind the sales counter. They were cute as all hell, in the eyes of one who expected to become a father, very, very soon now. He was finding the prospect had given him new eyes to appreciate, or something like that.

The woman turned her head and spoke sharply in the general direction of a doorway screened by a curtain of gaily-coloured patterns, and the voice of a younger woman came in response. It sounded like Arabic or something very much like it.

“I reckon they’re getting the old man.”

The customer brushed past them with a nod.

“I reckon you’re right.” Hubert kind of liked the smell in the store.

It was combination of herbs and spices, and tobacco, along with something else, something cooking in the back room, or perhaps it was the chili-peppers and other obscure vegetables in open bins. There were all kinds of foreign labels on the grocery shelves, which were sort of front and centre aisle, and there were tall shelves along the exterior walls, anywhere where there wasn’t a window or a door.

He could see cigarettes, bottles, cans, boxes, bolts of fabric, house and kitchen wares, toys, fireworks, colourful signs in French and Arabic. They could buy a lottery ticket, or a packet of potato crisps, a bottle of wine, pretty much anything. Except maybe pork chops…or maybe that was being unfair, they were selling the wine after all.

It was the atmosphere that was somehow different, underscored by the foreign music coming from a small radio set on a shelf behind the counter.

“Bonjour, Messieurs. Vieullez venir, s’il vous plaît…”

END

 

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

 

Real Change is Incremental.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

 

Thank you for reading.