Louis Shalako
“It’s a question of the identity. The condition of the
body, the clothes…the fact that he still has a considerable sum of money and
oh, yes, the killing is particularly brutal.”
“Brutal? How so?” Murder was hardly ever gentle, was it.
It wasn’t the most loving, or kindly of acts.
“So. It’s not just some nice, quiet little family
poisoning, with some poor someone waking up dead the next morning.” Snort.
“Just wait. You’ll see.” Levain uttered a contented little sigh.
Yes, perhaps it was better that way. No preconceived
notions, no one else’s conclusions. Just a brief introduction to another stiff,
and then he would be on his own.
As usual—as usual.
That was the greatest of luxuries, wasn’t it? To be on
one’s own.
It was the privilege of rank.
Maintenon settled back in his seat, aware of some
small chill in the guts. It was a quickening, perhaps even a quivering, it was
like a bunch of little butterfly feet walking around on the inside of the
stomach-lining. This one sounded like a bad one—all the more interesting for
that.
Call it anticipation, for want of a better word.
They were less than three blocks from the crime scene
at this point, and he would know by then.
The smirk on Andre’s usually calm visage would be
taken care of soon enough. As if reading that thought, there was a quick glance
and then the secret little smile had faded. But then Maintenon was the boss. He had the power, and
had been known to use it when he felt he must. He would abuse
it if he must—but only when it really counted, and only in the best of causes.
Levain sat back to contemplate the thought.
***
Alphonse, staying with the car, lounged around the
entrance to the alley, exchanging friendly greetings with other officers and
smoking like a fish, as someone had once put it.
“Ah. Dear God—” The attendant pulled the blanket
completely off the body, flat on his back, arms and legs splayed out to some
degree.
The face now, the face was a mess—a real mess.
Grey of visage, his natural colour apparently, a
Constable Comtois proffered a heavy brown paper envelope. He had the resigned
air of someone who had been on the night-shift for a little too long. That face
was a little too big, a little too loose for the skull under it; no fault of
his own of course. It was the luck of the draw.
“The murder weapon?”
“Presumably.” Carefully holding the flap open, Gilles
took a look.
“Jesus.” It was a bayonet.
“Fuck, ah, would appear to be the correct word,
Inspector.” Comtois seemed almost surprised by his own nerve, but no harm done.
A nervous eye took in a grinning Levain.
“Ah, yes. Constable.”
This one looked to be about seventeen to eighteen
inches long, forty-three to forty-five centimetres.
He’d seen enough of them in his time, glittering in the
wan sunlight and coming straight at him through a cloud of chlorine gas, as
often as not…
It was covered in dried blood, (it would hardly be
chocolate milk, would it), well up the hilt and the handle. The scene was
bloody enough, and on the ground itself, drips, spatters, and one big puddle
and a couple of smaller ones…trails and gobs of blood everywhere. Some on dead
leaves and some under…as if in counterpoint to the thought, a quick little gust
scattered them again, at least the ones not stuck down with dried blood.
All of it had been photographed from several angles,
but one was always aware…of what one was literally walking on.
“It’s nothing if not plausible, Gilles.”
“Sure, sure.” He straightened. “And no identification.
A wad of British and American currency in addition to a few hundred francs…”
The wallet, fine black leather and of good quality.
And a face, or what was left of a face, obliterated by
a thousand, or at least a hundred, stabs, slashes and cuts to the face. Fingers
and thumbs, all gone—someone had really gone to town on this one. It looked
like they’d been placed on a block or something and one quick whack had been
enough to take them off. The bayonet was more than heavy enough for that job.
The feet, presumably intact, as the shoes were still
nicely laced on.
“Okay.” The attendant went to work with the blanket.
“Andre. What is your impression?”
 |
| So. What is your impression? |
“Hmn, Well. The shoes are beautiful. Hand-made. We
might get a lead there. The clothes are good—those socks look like silk from
where I’m standing. Same with the tie. We’ll be looking for monogrammed
initials. Hell, on the underwear, even.” There was nothing on the shirt pocket,
he’d looked himself. “No hat, so far. A young man of means, or maybe just of
quality—or, less likely, a poser with money, money which had to come from
somewhere.”
He thought for a moment. There really should have been
a hat. A fedora most likely, if his guess as to the age of the victim was any
good. Older males of that class tended to the Homburgs and Trilby hats.
“Money like that had to come from somewhere, or
somebody else. Either way. Someone who would be missed.”
This was no nameless wino, in other words, and Gilles
agreed insofar as that went. This one wasn’t working class, even if they had
been all dressed up for a wedding or a funeral. No, this one was definitely
different.
Maintenon gave the scene another good look, and
nodded. The technicians, standing there with their cameras and their lights,
stared at him, giving no other sign that they cared. They would wait to see if
there was anything interesting under the body, and then they would go.
The morgue boys moved in.
He was all theirs now.
For some reason, they always took them out feet-first.
It was an unwritten rule or something.
***
“Any other exhibits?”
A poker-faced sergeant, shift supervisor, his own
vehicle and his own driver ticking over on the street outside, handed them
over.
Opening up the envelopes, there was the cash. There
was a mostly-full packet of expensive cigarettes, and a lighter, silver with
appliques on the sides, these were in some curious green stone. No monogram, no
inscription…
“Any rings or jewelry?”
“Ah, no, sir.”
“Here, wait.” The morgue people were just raising the
stretcher from the ground.
Lifting the blanket, he carefully put his nose down.
Yes, he smelled clean, at least from what he could discern, possibly even a
hint of after-shave there, and the shirt had been recently laundered. Gilles
was a smoker himself and he could still make out that much.
Hmn.
“All right, off you go.”
Some loose change, and in what truly brought the
humanity home to this shapeless mass of dead flesh, a paper tube of anti-acid
tablets of a popular brand. A shame, stomach problems, in one so young—yet it
was also a clue as to identity. This anonymous person had once had a life.
Gilles had the impression of late twenties or early thirties, perhaps it was
the clothes rather than any other detail. They were fashionable, they fit well,
and the person hadn’t been under or over-weight. The skin of the neck, the
nose, all fairly fine and smooth, told a certain story. Other conclusions could
wait, but this person could only be so old.
“Any keys?” He lifted an inquiring eyebrow.
“Ah. One key, sir—and only one.” It was a house-key, not
a locker or padlock or anything like that.
A door-key, from a modern lockset—as if that really
meant anything.
No letters, no business cards, no receipts tucked into
the billfold. A businessman would have been keeping receipts like crazy and
worrying about how to work them into the expense account later.
The rain, holding off pretty well up until then,
opened up and really began to pour.
Turning, hat-brim dripping, Maintenon headed for the
car without another word. With a nod, Levain left them to their work of mopping
up.
There were lights on now across the way.
The blackness of another autumn night was closing in.
Louis has many books
and stories on Smashwords.
Image. Paris
Alley.
Thank you for reading.
