Blessed Are the Humble, excerpt # 3.

His initial impression of Madame Herriot, the cook, was that she was a thoroughly professional woman. She had done this job for many years in any number of fine houses, and probably understood her place in the grand scheme of things very well. Now her entire world had been crushed in one blow. Nothing would ever be the same again. She was at least in control of her demeanor. It was better than hysteria.

“What time is lunch here?”

“It is at one o’clock, Inspector.”

“Does Olivier usually show up so early?”

“Ah. Perhaps it is his morning off. He works Saturday mornings, I believe, and takes various mornings off as he will. In his position at the bank, he can come and go perhaps more than the junior employees.”

Gilles nodded at this simple explanation for something that had been bugging him.

“Of course. Like a fool, I forgot to ask the gentleman himself.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What can you tell me about the other sons?”

“Oh, Monsieur. You’ll meet them soon enough. But they have always behaved as perfect gentlemen to the servants and to moi. I wouldn’t stand for having it any other way, and neither would Madame Ducharme.”

As she recited some of the places where she had worked before, his impressions were borne out. An impressive list, not exactly cabinet ministers or stars of stage and cinema, but the names were staid, sober and staunchly middle-class. They were familiar types.

It was the cook’s special prerogative to use the surname when referring to the lady of the house. The maids would just say Madame in a breathless and reverent tone. To the servant, the Madame or Monsieur’s first name was almost irrelevant. It was a little lesson in social status, for cooking, and not just any cooking, but haute cuisine of even the most everyday, pedestrian nature, required training and experience. Good cooking was a valuable skill. Madame would have very definite ideas of how her table should be. It was a skill in demand and thus the cook’s sense of self-worth. Hence the little privileges, like saying Madame Ducharme, almost as if to an equal. Equally important, he thought, was the fact that she had her own household and her own brood. She was married, the girls were single. A thoroughly independent-minded woman, apparently her husband had been killed in the War leaving her with four children under ten years of age.

The implication, left unsaid, was that she was doing all right on her own.

“Were you here when the boys were growing up?”

“Hmn!” She took a moment to think on it. “Olivier was here for a couple of years. Benoit moved out, I think just a few months—two or three maybe, after I first arrived. The other two were gone, but of course they come and go. Amaury has come back, once for two months while he was waiting for someone’s lease to expire so he could move in. They’re all over town, and they don’t show up all that often. They always came when invited by Madame Ducharme. Except for Philipe. I don’t know much about him.”

“Do they ever talk about him?”

“Ah…no.”

“Thank you.” He made a note. “When was all that?”

“I started here in January, nineteen-eighteen.”

Tailler carefully took down the details of the cook’s home address, the name of her late husband and her children.

Maintenon was interested to learn that she had a housekeeper-cum-nanny in her own home. It accounted for something in her bearing. By this time, she seemed calm enough.

“And Olivier comes around for lunch fairly regularly?”

“Yes, Inspector.”

As soon as he got down to the really important questions, she froze up again.

“It’s all right, Madame Herriot.” He cleared his throat.

She had discovered the body. It must have been traumatic, and yet she was composed enough when she came in.

“Just take a moment to think upon it. What time did you arrive?”

A wracking breath went through her.

“Ah—about the usual time.” Her mouth worked uncontrollably.

“I see. And you saw glass on the outer step?”

She nodded lugubriously, staring out the window as if to be free of this place. Now moisture welled up in her eyes and she dabbed at it with a sensible white cotton handkerchief, which appeared to be already damp.

“And what were your first thoughts?”

“A burglar—and of course I thought of Madame Ducharme and Sophie.”

“Very commendable. Naturally you feared for their safety, and so you had to go into the house, right?”

She nodded.

“So please tell me what you saw.”

“I saw what you saw.” She would budge no further.

“Was there anything else out of place? Does it look as if anything has been stolen?”

She just shrugged and stared far off into the distance, slightly over his head. Finally she answered.

“I don’t think so—it’s really hard to say.” Madame Herriot dabbed at her eyes some more.

She looked at him directly for the first time in what seemed like ages.

“She was a fine person. I hope you catch whoever did this and chop their head off.”

He lifted his eyes.

“All right, Madame Herriot. I understand. Perhaps we can just leave it at that, but I will have to ask these questions sooner rather than later. Justice demands that, you see?”

He could have sworn she growled at him, deep and low in her guts, but he might have been mistaken.

He closed the notepad.

On some kind of inspiration that came from he knew not where, Gilles pulled his chair up close to hers. He took her hands in his, as she fearfully searched his face, and he wondered just what she was seeing there. He returned her gaze, noting strength, dignity, and still the fearfulness in her eyes. Tailler was being as quiet as a church-mouse back there.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wished harm to come to Madame Ducharme?” The tone was gentle, and he thought she might answer. “You know I will do everything in my power to bring them to justice?”

She nodded. Then she gave a quick shake of her head, pulling her red, work-hardened hands away and sticking them under her arms. She refused to look at him, hot colour rising in her cheeks. Her jaw stuck out and it all seemed so very, very childish. But these were unusual circumstances. Sometimes people blamed the police for the most irrational of reasons.

He tried a few more mundane questions, hoping that would help.

“We saw one or two canes about the house. Did Madame Ducharme use a cane from time to time?”

She nodded but said nothing otherwise. He kept hoping she would open up and maybe volunteer something. Finally she said what was on her mind.

“May I be excused, please?”

“But of course, Madame. Please send in Emilie, s’il vous plait?”

She bobbed her head in a jerky fashion and shot out of the chair and out the door like her behind was on fire.

Interesting.

He couldn’t push too hard, but he had only so much time and less patience. He was convinced she could be of help, although he had no idea of what form that might take. He could not make assumptions. Anger said some strange things. Peel back one layer, and another layer presented itself. In that sense it was like the skin of an onion. That precept was fundamental to his nature. He had to consider her safety, and her rights, among other things. It was best not to make too big a thing of it.

Unshared knowledge was dangerous in a certain kind of case. This was beginning to look like one of those kinds of cases. It struck Maintenon that maybe she just resented being dragged into it. She must have some idea of how bad it could get, with the press, and the people, and the gawkers.

Now she just wanted it to be over and done with.

END of EXCERPT

Yeah. It's amazingly fun to write a mystery novel, as the reader may well imagine.

Other than that, the book is okay. 

You know?

It's the only claim I can safely make.

Blessed Are the Humble, excerpt # 2.

A paradigm of female pulchritude.

She was a paradigm of female pulchritude, and a vision of loveliness. He was especially drawn to her toes, peeking out of the end of her pumps. Some very beautiful women had less than exemplary feet. Every millimetre of this one would be perfect. She would not have big calves or big thighs. She would not have large, drooping breasts, but high, firm ones with pink nipples, as suited a young woman who had never borne children. Some women, all made up and taken at a distance, could appear beautiful, with good bone structure, good hair and good clothes. Up close and personal, Sophie had the most unblemished skin, on her neck and arms, where it was exposed below the puffy short sleeves, that he had seen in a long time. The softness of her gently-rounded countenance had not been ravaged by time or disappointment. Her deep blue eyes were clear, with only the slightest hints in the small red veins, of her late night and rude awakening. The young recovered quickly from such nights, possibly even such mornings, while the old suffered much more readily.

Her scent washed and cleansed the air, taking away everything that was foul or mundane, and left behind only the glory that was her. After holding her chair as she was seated, Gilles went around to the door.

His heart beat a little faster, as he closed it and took a seat, marveling at how aware he had instantly become at the sight of her cleavage, the soft, round arms, hands calmly clasped in her lap. The look of innocent youth did nothing to distract from the unmistakable body underneath the thin cotton sun-dress. Her ankles were trim and her feet neat and proper in the black patent-leather sandal-pumps. She had apparently taken the time to dress after the initial excitement.

Tailler’s big eyes took it all in and he sat very quietly, never taking his eyes off the subject.

She looked at Tailler and looked away, lifting her chin.

The young lady, so demure in her posture, was positively stacked, if that was the proper expression. It struck Gilles that Tailler was a handsome young fellow, a gift seldom despised except by those who did not possess it.

“I am so sorry for your loss. Please allow us to ask a few simple questions.”

She nodded, looking down at her hands. Her eyes came up and the second such jolt in his stomach was real enough.

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Okay. Were you home last night?”

“Well, yes. And no. You see—”

“Yes—and no?”

She flushed most prettily, over the worst of the first waves of grief at this point. Then her face crumpled in recollection.

“Yes. I was at a party. I came home late, about four or four-thirty a.m. I can’t quite recall, as I had a little champagne…”

“Where was this party?”

She mentioned a restaurant. They had gone on to a private residence in the Latin Quarter of the city after dinner.

“You took a cab home, right? But you can’t remember the name of the company?”

“No.”

“Were you alone?”

She blushed furiously, sitting up straight and biting back an initial reply.

“Yes.” Short, sweet and to the point.

“And there was nothing amiss when you came in?”

She almost seemed uncertain, and then made up her mind.

“No.”

“And you went to bed.”

“Yes.”

“Did your aunt have any enemies? Had she been in an argument with anyone lately?”

“No. I don’t know—I don’t think so.”

Gilles regarded the girl, tapping his pen on the pad as if to annoy even the most patient person.

“So, what brought you here?”

She regarded him evenly from her chair, hands in her lap.

“It’s Paris.”

No further explanation would appear to be forthcoming.

He grinned unexpectedly.

“But of course.” He had the desperate feeling that she was hiding much, but of course she was a young girl, full of life and love and hope and such things and he was just a scruffy old man.

“Do you have friends in the city?”

“Yes, of course.”

Gilles decided not ask about gentlemen friends. He must tread lightly there.

He wondered what she was really thinking.

“How long have you been here?”

“Two years…and a half, I think. Maybe a bit more.”

Her voice was low and even, and enough to draw shivers from any man.

“So you came here quite young, then?”

“I was fifteen.”

His jaw dropped slightly. How old was she, then? He sensed more to the story, although girls of good breeding came up to the city all the time. It was part of their education.

It turned out that Sophie was a bare seventeen and a half years old. Food for thought when he considered all of the Ducharme sons, and Olivier wasn’t the youngest one, either.

“May I ask a more personal question?”

“Of course, Inspector. If you think it will help.” Her lips pursed but her eyes were on his.

“How tall are you? You seem, er, very athletic.”

Her face lit up somewhat. She was just of an age. While a younger man, a cute guy, would have been more welcome, she just couldn’t help herself. The attentions of any man would do.

She responded well to flattery.

“I’m one hundred eighty centimetres tall.” Her head cocked to the left, as if she was sizing him up for a dance.

“I see. Do you engage in any sports?” It would be a pity if she didn’t.

He wasn’t surprised to learn that she was taking tennis lessons, and could golf on occasion, thanks to her father and brothers back home being fiends for the game. She went skiing in the winters, with friends, always with a chaperone, including her uncles Benoit and Olivier once or twice.

“And your family, they are all back home?”

She nodded.

“When was the last time any of them have been to Paris?”

“Oh. When they brought me up to the city.” Her mother and an older brother rode up on the train.

According to Sophie, she wrote home about once a month, and hadn’t been home since coming up to the big city. She belonged to a club. She swam in the pool, and exercised there from time to time, nothing regular about it, and on weekends in the country she did a little riding. It accounted for the healthy glow about her. Gilles hadn’t seen such a head of hair in a long time, although his own thin straggles had once been a tousled mop of auburn hair with multi-coloured highlights. As a very small child, he had ringlets. There was a picture of him like that in an old family album. He wondered at the Ducharme’s family history. He needed to know a lot more about them, and in the meantime, he put in the routine moments of questioning.

Every answer was given in a calm, level tone. She seemed very sensible, possibly intelligent.

This girl was just a little too good to be true. It struck him like that, and he couldn’t dismiss it. The wriggling tape-worm of an idea, as yet just an impression, slowly began to unwind and unfold in his mind. Maintenon had seen a lot of cases, and had met a lot of unusual people over the years. There was nothing new under the sun. Murderers were the most unusual people of all, for they had stepped across all boundaries and struck out on their own in a completely amoral fashion. She really didn’t impress him as that type, but one never knew.

Some cynic put it best.

Beauty is the bait which makes the hook more palatable.

While it was true that he didn’t get out much, she seemed to be an unusual young lady.

END of EXCERPT.

Actually, she isn't wearing a hat in this scene but I like the photo. (Morguefile.)

Coming Soon to an Electronic Bookstore Near You.

Blessed Are the Humble, an excerpt.

He was nearing the top of the second flight of stairs, and the temperature had gone up by a degree or two. The light rumble of talk came from somewhere in the room, behind the wall to his right. His head was about floor level.

“Andre?” His voice sounded loud in the enclosed space, but perhaps they hadn’t heard him.

He clambered up a few more steps, holding the rail as the wooden risers were dusty and he’d already slipped once with his hard leather shoes on the third one from the bottom.

“It’s all right, boss. The boys are almost done.”

Gilles turned the corner from the landing and went into what was clearly a kitchen. It was all glazed to his left, with curtains thrown wide open, and giving a strong north light to that end of the room. The other way was the kitchen proper with its big and very old fashioned cast-iron range and oven immediately to his right.

“Well.” Gilles suddenly understood why Andre sounded so smug about it over the phone.

The lady of the house, sprawled at the foot of the stairs in the far left corner, lay amidst puddles and spatters of blood. He moved around the central block table and had a look.

The long slender sword sticking out of her chest lent a rather surreal air of melodrama to what was already a shattering scene. Her glasses were on her face and intact, but her eyes had that glazed and lifeless look, halfway rolled up, back into her head. Gilles approached the body and knelt. He touched her lightly on the wrist, noting she was certainly very close to room temperature.

“Oh, my. Was she stabbed in the head, then?” The blood loss was copious…

Levain neatly bypassed the question. He was letting Maintenon have it cold, like yesterday’s gravy. That was just an expression they had.

“Madame was killed early this morning. The cook arrived at seven-oh-five, or seven-ten or so, according to her.”

“Ah.”

Andre Levain cocked his ears at the sound of feet on the stairs.

Tailler came in, taking in the scene, mostly the body at first, and looking with interest at the lab boys, before his eyes finally came around to Gilles and Andre. Andre Levain nodded at him in neutral fashion, noting the boyish air he had about him, with his unusual height and still a bit of baby fat in the face. Tailler had hazel-brown eyes and a fairly intelligent look about him.

Tailler glanced at Levain in equally neutral fashion and nodded politely back.

“Sir?”

“It’s all right, Tailler. You can observe the goings-on.” Gilles looked deadpan at Andre. “Go on, please.”

“Right. The young girl, her name is Sophie. She was out late, came home around four or four-thirty, alone in a taxi-cab. She says she can’t remember the name of the company.”

“Very well.”

“She said she had a couple of glasses of champagne at the party, and that she fell asleep immediately upon coming home.” Levain consulted his notes as if to ensure he had everything. “She says she didn’t hear anything until the cook pounded on her door around seven-twenty. She’s not sure of the exact time and neither is the cook.”

“All right.”

“There was no one else in the house. The rear door, which opens onto the alley, appears to have been broken into. Glass inside and out, nothing unusual. We’re asking if anything is missing.” Levain looked at his notebook. “The cook and the other girls are pretty shaken.”

Gilles nodded.

“So, it looks like a sneak thief.”

“That’s how it looks, Gilles.”

The unspoken question was, if so, then why are we here?

Gilles bit his lip in silent contemplation.

“So she was stabbed repeatedly with the sword? Hmn.” It certainly fit the profile of a hasty choice of weapon. “That’s very strange.”

Something heavy, a blunt instrument, wielded from behind, would have been much easier to use with any likelihood of success. It was hard to conceive a self-respecting thief not hearing her coming down the stairs, but that was an assumption on his part. The thief might have been deaf!

She would have been screaming like mad.

A deaf perpetrator seemed unlikely, as they would find a less hazardous profession very quickly. There were hard floors in all directions from this vantage point. Gilles moved further into the room, absorbing it, the smell of cooking, the smells that emanated from behind the cupboard doors, spices and condiments and the raw smell of onions coming from somewhere nearby. Levain watched him silently as he got the feel of the place.

“What’s in there?” Gilles pointed to a small door.

“The pantry. The usual stuff.”

Gilles used his handkerchief to avoid leaving prints and carefully opened it.

Bulkier stores, jars, tins and boxes, sacks of flour and what he thought was salt, were lined up on wall shelves. There were empty baskets on the floor in the corner and shopping bags hanging from pegs close to the door. A half a bushel of apples, some potatoes, carrots…nothing out of the ordinary.

The fingerprint technicians came out of a front room with their bulging valises. They had their jackets on.

“We’ll fill you in when our reports are complete.”

Maintenon nodded thoughtfully.

The first one made for the stairs.

The second one was more outgoing.

“We got a lot of good prints, quite a number of different ones.” His attitude seemed to imply that he was just having some good clean fun. “Any place a thief was likely to touch, including the doors and knobs, of course.”

“Thank you, gentlemen.” Gilles could still hear faint muttering from somewhere in the front of the house.

The inhabitants must be around somewhere. He’d have a few questions for them in a moment. Levain continued.

“All right. We have a housemaid, the cook, and the niece in the parlor, which is up one flight. We have plenty of photos and the morgue boys are waiting for the body.”

Just then a familiar figure stuck his head out of the passage leading to those rooms overlooking the street out front. Brighter out there, he was backlit but immediately recognizable by a miss-shapen head, just like a big strawberry. That had been his nickname in his younger days. The shock of tousled red hair would have given him away at almost any distance. The sound of the fingerprint boys clumping down the endless stairs, for the ceilings were all three and four metres up on these floors, finally faded away with one last flurry of deep, distant voices.

The coroner was none other than the inimitable—Gilles had never found much use for the word, but it somehow fit Gaston Janvier.

“Gaston.”

“You know your victim was shot three times, don’t you?”

Levain laughed aloud at the sadly patient look on Maintenon’s face, the deep and expressive sigh he gave. Tailler looked on as if he’d known it all along. The poor fellow had no idea of what he was supposed to be doing there. He had the uncomfortable feeling that the Inspector was making a joke of him, which wasn’t very nice.

“Sorry, Inspector! I was just saving a little something for you.” Levain winked at Janvier.

Gilles eyed Levain in a sardonic kind of agreement.

“Ah. Ha. Yes. I see. Hmn.” He looked over at Tailler with tolerance written all over him. “So, what do you think, young man?”

Tailler shook his head, completely baffled by all of the attention, but then he just grinned. He shrugged expressively and winked solemnly at Levain, who oddly enough looked away.

“Might as well have a bash, eh, sir?”

END of EXCERPT.

So there it is, warts and all, my third mystery novel and my twelfth overall.

I'm still proofing it and it will be out in a couple of days. 

It will be available by Christmas on various platforms.

Paranoid? You bet.

You know that guy's paranoid dontcha.

Ignore the secret messages on the radio.

Any self-respecting paranoid person knows that.

That’s how they try and get at you.

They try to get hold of you. That’s what Cezanne figured.

They’re just trying to get ahold of you. Yet we can’t help but listen to the frickin’ radio. It’s kind of flattering in some ways, and of course we want to know what the bastards are up to.

Sounds like some imminent changes in the works. That’s my reading between the lines.

More later.

***

I’ll be honest.

I watch my mirrors. When someone follows me for too long I take a quick four left or right turns and then follow them for a while. I have one eye in the back of my head. I want to see where they’re going.

I search the faces in the crowd, looking for one wrong nuance. A blink, a twitch, a subtle shift in pheromone levels.

When I see a trap, I spring it. I want to see what happens. Who comes running.

I am perfectly attuned to my environment. I blend in by sticking out head and shoulders above the crowd.

That guy is just a little too obvious. And quiet.

A little too quiet.

No one ever suspects.

I walk inside of their skins, and so they can never find me.

I am aware of my surroundings. I can feel their eyes on the back of my neck, which is not all that interesting when you think about it.

But I know that they are out there.

You, are out there.

And I live with it.

Yeah, I know the oppo could be onto me at any time, especially as the Fem-Bot revolution takes hold on the pages of Cosmo—they’re all replicants in there, don’t you know, that’s different from air-brushing for the uninitiated. They’re hoping I’ll lead them to the next link in the chain, and sooner or later I will, if only by coincidence in a chain of causality with odds so close to zero as makes not much difference.

Didn’t you know that? Never really thought of it, huh?

That’s okay, it’s just that I feed off human company of the virtual kind.

Obama don’t want you to know.

Man.

You got to get a grip on reality.

Whatcha been smokin’?

Nothing?

Well that explains a lot.

So anyway, these two chicks move in across the hall. I know they’re SMERPK but that’s okay.

Bit of a cease-fire going on right now. Negotiations are underway. It’s all very intuitive. For all I know, they’re out of ammo.

Well, it’s not like I speak the lingo or anything. They are that young.

***

So.

Doctor Blowfish, how’s it going? It’s okay, man. Really. Everyone is welcome to read my blog.

Yes, even you.

I make no distinctions. You’ve just strayed from the path.

You’ll figure it out, man. Deep down inside, you’re a pretty nice guy, or half-guy. I see the good in everyone, and you can too. If only you would but try. You’re all bound up in seeing the tiny bit of evil in everyone.

That’s your real problem.

You know what I’m talkin’ about.

I hate to throw a big screw into what is after all a pretty well-oiled operation, but some of your minions have been reading me for years.

It’s why they keep fucking up all the time.

I saw your tutorials on Youtube and now I’m gonna getcha if it’s the last thing I do before I retire. With a full pension including health and dental—one thing the real crims never think of.

You only wish, sonny boy. And you too girlies!

If you ever want to see your goat again, put ten dollars into a fine vellum envelope, preferably unicorn-skin, and stick it into the hole in the big old oak tree out behind the Paranoid Club.

And don’t watch or nothing for me, because the odds are I’ll trip over you while you’re sleeping and neither one of us really wants that, right?

You’ll sleep better in your own bed.

Right?

END OF PSIONIC TRANSMISSION

Oh, so much more than that.

Coming soon to an electronic bookstore near you.

I’m just finishing up ‘Blessed Are the Humble,’ my new book and mystery # 3 in the Maintenon Mystery Series.

It’s interesting, how after I got a few thousand words down, the story sort of took off on its own.

By making certain choices early in the book, many other choices were eliminated later in the book. And yet certain opportunities presented themselves. They always do.

Every thought you ever had, every thing you ever saw or heard, read, or imagined, is still inside of you.

It’s all there, logged into your memory banks. Much of it is so obscure, it will never be needed. It will never be called upon—unless you want to be a writer or something stupid like that.

Nothing is forgotten. It’s all there in some subconscious thought factory, one that rules our dreams and even our body.

Mind, body, spirit, right?

All of that can come to the surface again when it is called upon. It’s called regurgitation.

That’s not to say that I’m rewriting AgathaChristie, but all the previous mystery novels that I have read undoubtedly play a part in whatever I write in that genre.

It’s called ‘influences,’ and we all have a few.

My characters, who seem to spring, at least in my own eyes, directly formed, right off of the page, say the dumbest things—and it always gets me to thinking.

What in the hell did he mean by that?

But of course it is my subconscious mind, well trained over the years, trying to tell me something.

In the first chapter, I set up a crime, and made certain statements, statements that must hold true for the entire book, or must be accounted for in some way otherwise.

The internal logic of a mystery novel must be true unto itself, even if it is true unto no other thing or world. 

Your subconscious mind has internal logic too.

Internally, if I introduce something early in the book, ideally, it should be accounted for later on. If not, I can always go back and cut out those red herrings, those erroneous clues that mean nothing except that the author was laying some groundwork, of a sort that ultimately was unnecessary.

All that shit is bubbling away below the surface. In me. That’s where it’s all happening.

I knew the ending, or at least who had committed this crime before I even set foot into the writing of this book. Fun metaphor, right? But those red herrings were useless once I got going, and so I took them out again.

Easy, right? And when I ran across a statement, I thought it through. As best I could. And came up with objections. Objections which I subsequently shot down, by going to an appropriate place in the manuscript, and taking out something stupid, and writing in something new.

That’s called logic.

All I really had to do, was to write a practical set-up for the ending of my book. It’s a mystery book. It’s formulaic to begin with, and must be so or the readers kind of miss the point.

Then I went through and checked all my logic, all the names and faces, time-frames and stuff like that. If you have a male murderer, and your detective and the evil lady are struggling in mortal combat upon the Empire State Building, and yet the entire sequence of events is in Tokyo, with the scene set in Paleolithic Africa, then I guess you would have a bit of a problem.

An interesting mash-up, but not your classic formula mystery novel.

People can’t be in two places at once, and people must have motive for an extraordinary act.

My story happens in Paris, and it’s not that difficult to keep it in Paris. Until one character goes on the lam—then I had to look up border towns on the way to Lausanne, which is in Switzerland.

The characters drive the story! Whoever would have thunk it.

And so the characters can be said to have led me on. They led me on a merry chase, and I had to work hard just to figure these guys out. In order for Inspector Gilles Maintenon to solve this murder, first I had to solve it. In order to solve it, I had to have les clue.

Writing a mystery novel is an interesting mental exercise.

It’s easier said than done. I need evidence to convict a criminal character. The only person who could provide compelling evidence, motive, modus operandi and all of that sort of thing is the writer himself.

To say that I had fun writing the book would be an understatement. The whole thing works out to about 65,300 words. It took twenty-eight writing days and four drafts, which took another three or four days. I will no doubt read it again, four or five times more.

That’s interesting, because John Creasey, who is said to have received seven hundred sixty-five rejection slips before making his first novel sale, is also said to have written books in a very short time. He also wrote six hundred novels. Eight different pen names. He even wrote science fiction.

Books which he sold for some ludicrous sum; and I mean like all of twenty-five pounds for a mystery or crime thriller novel. Back then, I guess the rents were cheap or something.

I’ve read quite a few of his books as well, as my grandfather had a whole shelf full of them.

Mystery readers love a puzzle, and I have set them a good one. All of the clues, both the physical and yes, the all-important psychological ones, are right there in black and white.

What you make of them, is up to you.

In the beginning, it was such a simple crime: to write a mystery novel in about a month, to a length of 60,000 words.

It was a crime of pure arrogance.

But it was oh, so much more than that.