 |
| Monsieur Noel is of course devastated. |
(This is a work in progress and subject to revision. - ed.)
Louis Shalako
Traffic between the Quai d’Orfevres and the Boulevard
des Italiens was heavy, not unexpectedly for the day after a long weekend.
After the Resurrection, Jesus had returned to stay with the Apostles for forty days
and then had been lifted up into heaven. Gilles’ own weekend, not being a
particularly devout or even reverent person, had been spent quietly at home
with the radio and his newspapers. Thankfully, they didn’t have far to go. The
vehicle was warming up inside and they were fairly heavily dressed.
The weather had broken and the brilliant sunshine
promised better things to come.
“What’s your name, young man?” Gilles was always on
the lookout for new talent.
“Constable Renaudin, sir.”
“Don’t go anywhere. And for Christ’s sakes, park
somewhere we can find you.”
“Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir.”
Doors thudded shut and Maintenon and Levain quickly
mounted the front steps of the imposing building.
“Right, then.” Renaudin put it in gear and eased it
forward, the most recent in a long line of official vehicles.
He left a little room in front of her. They could get
out in a hurry if they needed to. It was always best to think ahead when
dealing with the brass hats. There
were one or two other uniformed types hanging around if he got bored and felt
like talking.
Whatever was up, it looked like he might be in for a
bit of a long day.
Renaudin got out of the car, needing a smoke. Some
senior officers would shit all over you if the car smelled like dead tobacco.
There was a small throng of people, milling round in
front of the building. Two other uniformed gendarmes were guarding the door,
but talking to each other and not paying much attention.
“Move along now, there’s nothing to see here.”
A lady accosted him.
“Officer. That’s my bank. What’s going on? I have to
get in there—”
“You know as much as I do, Madame. Do you have a car?”
She shook her head.
He thought for a moment, then began to give the lady
directions to another branch via bus or Metro. At her age, it was a bit far to
walk. After a minute, there were more than one listener clustered around him.
***
“Sir.”
Gilles flashed his badge at an unfamiliar gendarme,
terribly thin and cadaverous even at the age of twenty or whatever, and their
footsteps rattled and echoed in the cavernous space, all polished stone and
hard surfaces.
A harried-looking individual broke out of a huddle
with other similarly-stressed individuals, all of them remarkably of a certain
stereotype. The detective hurried forward to meet them.
“Ah, Inspector Maintenon.” He extended a hand in
genuine gratitude. “I’m Detective Grosjean.”
His sharp eye took in the hulking figure at
Maintenon’s side.
“Hello.”
Grosjean grinned.
“Andre Levain, right?”
They shook hands quickly. Grosjean took a sober look
at his hand afterwards, but no, it was still all in one piece. It hadn’t been
crushed or anything…that was sure interesting.
“Come right this way, please.” He turned and led them
through a featureless door in a flat section of the wall beside the main service
counter.
***
There were too many people in the room. As soon as
they saw Maintenon their voices lowered and they focused on the work. They were
still taking photos and dusting every conceivable surface for prints. Any
distinctive shoe-marks would have long since lost any meaning in the shuffle of
men with big feet and habitually wearing stout, heavy shoes.
Grosjean was right there at his side.
“Who found the body?”
“A Mademoiselle Emilie Martin, head cashier. There
were security guards on duty all through the weekend. The big branch manager,
Monsieur Noel, was the first one to arrive this morning. The call came in at
about twenty to nine.”
Maintenon nodded. Levain squatted by the body,
awkwardly leaning in over a puddle of amorphous fluid with little chunks of
something in it.
It must be vomit, there was some on his cheek and some
on his shirt-collar.
He looked up at Grosjean.
“Personal effects?”
“Haven’t looked yet. Quite frankly, I was leaving that
for you boys.” He gave Gilles a considering look. “I know when I’m a little out
of my depth.”
“There’s no obvious signs of violence, Boss.” Levain
tentatively sniffed the air.
There was vomit on the floor. The man’s face was
frozen in a rictus of agony. He had died with his eyes open and full awareness.
Gilles studied the man, standing over him. There were signs of bruising where
he must have fallen.
“He was lying face down according to our witnesses.”
Just the usual smell—a lot of urine. The outline of
the stain was still there, but it had dried over time. He wondered exactly how
long that would take under these conditions. Not all goners shit themselves, a
fact for which Levain was truly grateful at times.
Levain had his cotton gloves on and was going through
the pockets.
“The deceased is one Daniel Masson, deputy assistant
manager or something. Third from the top in the local food chain. He was
authorized to enter the vault, which he would normally do only during business
hours. There’s a time lock, and we’ve called the makers. They should be here
any time now, and we’ll see if the time lock has been fiddled.”
Maintenon nodded thoughtfully, watching Levain and
looking around.
Levain pulled out a set of keys, house and vehicle.
There was a wallet, a few hundred francs, small change, a packet of cigarettes
and a heavy gold lighter in the jacket pocket. As might be expected, the
clothes were very good in the fit, and relatively expensive.
“Hello.” Levain’s jaw dropped and he pulled an apple
out of the right side jacket pocket.
“There’s another problem.”
“Ah. There always is, isn’t there?”
 |
| Inspector Gilles Maintenon, unusually clean-shaven. |
Grosjean grinned wryly at the Inspector.
“Yes, sir. Ah—according to the manager, the main vault
looks okay—he says he’d have to do a proper count, but it looks undisturbed.
Otherwise there would be one hell of
a panic. As it is, they’re merely scared shitless. On the other hand. We have
all of these safe deposit boxes.”
Maintenon’s eye swept the room. They were all closed
and none of them appeared to be damaged or disturbed at first glance.
“Yes.”
Grosjean let out a long breath.
“What we were thinking, sir, was to have the manager
call a few people, hopefully discreet people…and have them come around and
check their deposit boxes.”
“Hmn.”
It definitely was a ticklish sort of situation.
Gilles nodded sharply. Yes, they had damned well
better get some answers.
“Yes, but first. We’ll have the bank’s people check
all the empty boxes. They can use their records, and we’ll eliminate them
first…n’est pas?”
“Sir?” Grosjean was slightly baffled but not the
argumentative type.
Levain rose stiffly, accepting a bag from one of the
attending technical people and carefully signing and dating it. In went most of
the materials.
“Check that apple for prints.”
“Ah, yes sir.” There was this look on his face, but
one never knew of course.
There was one more item, this one from the right-hand
jacket pocket. It was a small, heavily creased bit of shiny paper. He brought
it up to his nose and sniffed it suspiciously. There was the hint of
something…perhaps fruity? A candy wrapper. He shook his head and put it in the
envelope as well.
Levain looked at Gilles.
“This looks like one big, fine mess, Boss.”
“You can say that again—but please don’t, Andre.”
Grosjean stood there, staring at his crime scene,
slightly hunched at the shoulders, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. They
really had their work cut out for them on this one.
This case had pressure
from above and inside job written
all over it.
***
Under the gun as they were, Gilles made a quick
decision.
“All right. We’ll have a bank employee standing over
us as we work. I’ll have to make a quick call to Chiappe—the Commissioner. But
I honestly don’t see what else we can do.” The thoughts of dozens, or hundreds
of citizens, going by the number of safe-deposit drawers in the room,
God-damned civilians, coming and
going to check on the contents of their box, was appalling.
Yet it probably would
come to that—off the cuff, he couldn’t think of a similar situation or he might
have had a better idea of how to proceed.
That was a last resort.
“When you open a drawer, it should be empty. If it’s
not, photograph the contents, dust for prints, tag it and bag it for the lab.”
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
Andre winked at Gilles.
“Nope.”
“Very well.” Turning, Gilles beckoned Grosjean to come
along. “Let’s make that phone call and then we’ll speak to the manager.”
Grosjean had brightened up considerably, now that he
had some competent help on the scene.
The thoughts of speaking to Chiappe, whom
he had never met, were not all that welcome.
End
