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| "Sorry, Gilles. It's another one." De Garmeaux. |
Louis Shalako
De Garmeaux stood in the doorway of the Special Homicide Unit.
Andre noted the file in his hand and the resigned look on his face.
Maintenon looked up from his desk, with LeBref typing away in the background.
“Hey. Long time, no see—” Then he sighed, deeply. “All right.”
“Sorry, Gilles. It’s another one.” He subsided into a chair at the corner of Maintenon’s desk. “So. How have you been?”
With a grimace and a glance at the clock, Maintenon took the folder.
“Fine, fine, what difference does it make.”
De Garmeaux chuckled.
Hubert, not needing to be told, was up and out of his seat. The coffee in the pot had been there for quite some time, and by this time, what with the warming ring underneath, it would have to be just about the consistency of roofing tar…
De Garmeaux pulled a lighter and a packet of Gitanes from his jacket as Gilles skimmed the details. There was a snap and smoke began to waft its way into all corners of the room as he exhaled.
“How much do you want to bet?”
Maintenon shook his head, focus unshaken. His reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Bet on what?” Hubert, holding the coffee pot, had just been about to go down the hall for water.
The older detective turned.
“Where is the lover? The older or aging woman, missing some young man, who may or may not turn out to be dead.”
Gilles skimmed.
The victim, about the right age. Clearly male…face obliterated, as the report said, by anything up to a hundred stab wounds. Cause of death, undetermined, in what sounded a cautious note but of course everyone in the department knew all about the previous cases. A death by many causes.
Everyone in town knew about it by now.
Time of death, late the evening before, or early in the morning, definitely ten or twelve hours before the time of discovery. Good clothes…good shoes…good hair, good teeth, the few cavities filled; and good underwear. Yes, someone had definitely been paying attention to the bulletins. A nice, thorough report.
Hell, even the spelling was good, something not always the case.
Found behind trash bins just off the Rue Allent, half a block from the Rue Lille. He knew it, at least, noting it wasn’t too far from the Daniau woman’s address. It was the right neighbourhood.
The hands, all fingers and thumbs cut off. Signs of the body having been dumped. No bloody weapon, no digits, no coat, sheet or carpet or anything that might have been used to transport a body. No reports of any suspicious vehicles…nothing much going on that night at all. A nice, quiet little neighbourhood.
“That, is one thorough report.”
“Gilles.”
“Ah. Yes.”
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| Everyone wants him to shave off the beard... |
“We’re canvassing the neighbourhood. The problem, is that there are hundreds of vehicles a day. There are servants and staff, and lots of them. Tradespeople, contractors, caterers…garbage disposal. There are some big maisons, hotels, restaurants. All kinds of traffic, night or day. But so far, no leads on any unusual activity, and bear in mind the time of night. It’s pitch-black, certainly once you get off the street and into the alleys or behind the buildings.” It was the period of the New Moon as well.
Generally, deliveries were at set times, more or less—no deliveries before eight or after five, in other words…seven-thirty a.m., at the earliest. The bulk of traffic was on the street, at storefront level.
“Very well.”
De Garmeaux sighed.
“The press are all over it, of course.”
Of course they were—
“I like the beard, incidentally. Very intellectual.”
Maintenon grunted. He didn’t feel intellectual—it was just a beard and people were reading all sorts of things into it.
“Yes, and so are we, we are all fucking over it.” The profanity came and went, depending on Maintenon’s mood. “All right. Send me a copy of all photos, all lab reports. All interviews—the lot.”
His old friend nodded, seemingly content, as if that could ever truly be said for a homicide detective. So—Gilles was in a good mood then.
“Consider it done.”
Hubert was back, and then the newest member of the team bustled in.
To his credit, De Garmeaux barely raised an eyebrow when he saw that it was a woman.
A bit of perfume in the air—now, that was really different for this place. It wasn’t all stale tobacco and even staler socks and sticky, sweaty armpits, not these days.
A grin cracked the seamy old face, and his eyes glittered at the faint hint of a blush on old Gilles’ cheeks. A chair creaked as she settled into her desk, behind and just over one shoulder. So, it was real, then—
Well, someone had to be first. If nothing else, Maintenon would make sure she was properly trained.
Craning his neck, he took another look.
Now it was his turn to colour, as some of the coldest, clearest grey eyes he’d ever seen returned his gaze.
“Good morning, detective.”
“Er, good morning—good morning, indeed.”
Hubert, back turned but somehow not missing a thing, grinned in appreciation.
But, having made it this far, Margot was not all that easily intimidated.
He knew, because he’d tried it himself.
Only once.
Once, had been enough.
“I think it’s cute.”
“What? What is?”
The males, of course, were completely mystified.
“The beard. I think it’s cute.”
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| Margot: not easily intimidated. |
Hubert downright giggled, he just couldn’t help himself—
Ha! Ha. Ha.
She flashed an open-mouthed De Garmeaux a brilliant smile. Putting her head down, she opened her note-pad, and then decisively rolled a fresh sheet into the battered old machine.
She began to type.
Now that one, that one had some nerve.
De Garmeaux nodded, thoughtfully.
He caught Gilles’ eye, although he didn’t say it.
It was a whole new world, wasn’t it.
***
Louise Robert fit the profile well enough, although this one was a bit younger and more beautiful than anyone could have reasonably expected.
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| This one's impossibly beautiful. |
This one was impossibly beautiful, an important distinction.
She’d filed a missing-person report, and her young man matched the description. Or as near as it was possible to do so. It was surprising just how many such reports were turned in, almost on a daily basis. Most of those reports were much younger people, and almost invariably, they turned up once word got out someone was concerned for their welfare—runaway youth, some family conflict, something more than they could bear, ruled by their glands as they so often were at that age. Anyone sheltering or harbouring such a person could get in a shit-load of trouble, and were often the first ones to pick up a phone.
They usually ended up back at home, unless Youth Services had reason to become involved—but that, was another story. The second largest group were the mentally-unstable, and then there were the much older people, just wandering off so to speak.
“So, can you think of any reason why, er, Jules wouldn’t have returned home, on, ah, Wednesday night?”
“No, and that’s why I am so worried. So very much unlike him.” Jules Lalonde, her Jules, really wasn’t like that.
Jules led a sober and industrious life, having gone to trade school, served his apprenticeship, and, over time, he had gone from the smaller shops to a much bigger company. He’d gotten into the union. It was why they had voted for him. There must have been some quiet confidence, some firmness there or they never would have done it. Their interests were at stake, and everyone knew it. Everyone liked him, even respected him, and in one so young that was no mean feat. To such an extent that the youthful master millwright had become shop steward and was now very active in the labour community.
“How old is he, exactly?”
“Twenty-nine.”
According to her, he had talked of running for election, although first one had to build a name and it was very expensive—one had to attract funding as well as votes, according to her. This one seemed a very intelligent and self-possessed young woman. Maintenon and Levain were observing through the one-way mirrored window as Margot conducted the interview in Room Four.
Margot was a strong character—a little older than their subject, and somehow motherly, and yet still firm and direct in her queries. Her gift was in understanding.
“And so you say, he had no real distinguishing marks? No moles, scars or tattoos, anything like that?”
“Er, no. Our relationship was strictly friendship—”
“Strictly platonic, you mean.”
“Er, yes. That is what I mean.” The corners of her mouth came down in a repressed smile—or grimace, for what that was worth.
Margot nodded, accepting it at face value for the time being. Mademoiselle Robert would have parents, friends, she would have neighbours. She would have a social life. The facts would come out at their leisure, as police would be interviewing all involved.
Perhaps it was completely unconscious, but this one had sex written all over her.
Whatever she might have seen in Monsieur Jules, it was fairly certain what he’d seen in her.
Unless there was something queer about him—
That question might come a little bit later.
In the meantime, it was all details, itty-bitty little details, building a complete picture of the missing Jules.
“So, you wouldn’t know if he was circumcised or anything like that?”
“Er, no.” Just the faint hint of a blush—
***
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| Langeron: No fool. |
This time it was Gilles’ turn, on the other side of the desk as it were.
He’d been called by some semi-anonymous flunky to Langeron’s office. The time, very specific, nine-fifteen.
Maintenon was as prepared as possible, and had brought Hubert along with him for the experience as much as anything. The younger man would speak only if spoken to. Otherwise, keep your ears open and maybe you’ll learn something.
“So far. We have three young men. Names only, no proper identification as far as bodies are concerned. One of our names, has turned up, two still unaccounted for. Of the Christian names, one starts with a ‘P’ and the other two start with a ‘J’, no idea as to whether that is significant. Here’s the thing. Saulnier was named Jean-Paul, but no one who really knew him, knew him by anything other than Paul. How is this significant? We simply don’t know, unless our victims were picked off of a written list, one with full names and other information. One, a musician and financial whiz-kid, two stalwart industrial types, the sort of kid who has a lathe in his bedroom. But that is what it takes these days, if one is to stand a chance of getting apprenticed to the locomotive factory by the age of twelve.”
Langeron snorted.
“…and then there are the women. Incidentally, there is some variation as to age, height, weight, eye colour, hair colour. Yet they do all seem to fit into a category—” The women as well as the men.
That, was interesting.
“Someone is presenting us with all of this.”
“Yes—yes, they are, sir. As to why—or what for, at this point in time we have no idea. Yet there clearly must be a connection. This would appear to include Monsieur Saulnier, our only known, ah, survivor, sir.” The tone was dry and correct.
“I see.”
Hubert, not having been consulted so far, sat there quietly and observing.
“The women.”
“Yes. Again, some variation as to age, temperament, perhaps even to the extent of the relationship. Yet, they all saw fit, or thought it important enough, to make a missing-person report. There was some strong, ah, affinity there.” He consulted his notes. “Cariveau was a distant cousin. He stayed with the family for a month or two before getting his own apartment. The lady claims no sexual relationship.”
Police weren’t quite sure what to believe, but. Detectives were, even as they spoke, interviewing the neighbours.
Langeron nodded. So far, nothing then—reading between the lines, but that was the most sophisticated form of reading, after all.
“And they’re all within a three-kilometre radius…merde.”
Merde.
“Gilles. Were these crimes of passion? All of those stab wounds, all that blood and disfigurement…”
“No.” Maintenon thought, deeply. “No. These are some of the most dispassionate killings I have ever seen.”
“Ah…”
No, Langeron was no fool—
There was more.
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| Hubert: I'm all ears, Boss. |
“The hell of it is, with the man in question, Monsieur Saulnier, arriving during our search, it rather threw the validity of our warrant out the window. It wouldn’t stand up to much of a challenge, and worse—worse, we didn’t get to finish. There’s no telling what we might have found, if he hadn’t turned up, just exactly when he did.”
Langeron sighed, deeply.
“Ultimately, we may end up offering the man our apologies.”
The whole meeting didn’t take ten minutes.
END
Louis has an audiobook, Speak Softly My Love, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Listen free with trial membership.
Thank you for reading.
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