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| The car. |
Louis Shalako
***
The day hadn’t begun all that badly, but it had slowly deteriorated. All of those hard benches, all of those hard chairs. Hard light, hard noises in the stone-lined corridors, the floor polished by a million footsteps, with all the nervous ones smoking like chimneys, even the air was hard to breathe. Someone, somewhere, had decided it was better to let them smoke.
Waiting, waiting, always waiting…
Four hours, sequestered, then a full hour and a half for lunch—half the fucking court, including sequestered witnesses, theoretically equally-sequestered jurors, court officials, flunkies, hangers-on and family members, almost inevitably ended up at the new, cafeteria-style eatery half a block down the road. It was all modern efficiency, stainless steel and bright colours. Rotating stools and newfangled plastics. The dull roar of all of them talking at once, the clink of spoons and the clang of tin trays sliding down long, stainless-steel tubing, the cakes, the pies, the sandwiches and the salads, all lined up in a row under glass.
The best thing that could be said about the food, was that it induced heartburn immediately, rather than at two a.m.
Some of them awkwardly eyeballing each other, in the hopes of getting a clue—as to their fate, perhaps, or perhaps from the opposing point of view, as to their guilt…their veracity, their credibility. Not a good time to spill one’s soup on one’s trousers or to get a big splash of mustard on one’s tie.
One wanted to make a good impression; for better or for worse.
Try not to look too nervous—
In the end, it was all for naught. Hopefully it had all been worth it, but defense and prosecution had come to an agreement. The defendant, with their goose mostly cooked, had chickened out of the trial process at the last possible moment, opting for twenty-five to life, with some small possibility of parole.
This would be served on Devil’s Island, rather than facing the uncomfortable possibility of death by guillotine in a metropolitan prison, all too close to judicial gears, which ground exceedingly fine at times.
Life in a cell, versus life in a hovel, on some hell-hole of a tropical island. Growing turnips and scratching at fleas might look pretty good sometimes…all you had to do, was to survive long enough. You could scratch out writs of appeal by the light of a smoky fire, munching on vegetable marrows, with plenty of time in between to await the replies.
One look into the eyes of the jurors, that was enough sometimes.
Here’s looking at you, kid.
...here's looking at you, kid.
A total waste of his time and the meticulous preparation that went into a major court appearance. In the case of the defendant, also a total waste of time, and the meticulous preparation that went into what had clearly been premeditated murder.
And now, standing on the pavement, looking up and down in the glare of a rare blaze of autumn sunlight, his driver was nowhere to be seen.
The car was radio-equipped, but Gilles wasn’t. The heavy briefcase was making one arm longer, or so it seemed. He couldn’t stand there forever, but he could at least change hands.
Sighing deeply, he was about to go back in to find a phone, when the dusty black Citroen appeared around a corner and came along at its usual sober and industrious pace. No, Alphonse was not one to be hurried.
***
“Sorry about that, sir.” Alphonse was one of the few that never called him Boss.
It was one way of keeping the senior officer in his place, thought Maintenon.
“That’s all right. Just—”
“If you don’t mind, sir…”
“Hmn. What.”
“You won’t believe it, so I will just tell you anyway. I saw your Sherlock Holmes personator. Seriously. I had to follow. It seemed like the thing to do.”
Gilles studied the man’s eyes in the rear-view mirror.
“Go on, Alphonse.”
“Well. It was about ten-forty. I was reading the paper and smoking.” A bit early, he’d been eyeing the brown-bag lunch on the seat beside him…
Gilles suppressed any irritation. He’d get there, sooner or later.
“Anyhow, on the other side of the street, going the other way…there was this person. And as soon as I saw them, I thought of your friend. The one that stuck the note in your pocket.”
“And how did you know about that?” Gilles sat there open-mouthed.
A bus roared by at full throttle, and acrid black fumes came in the window.
It was better to let the vehicle sit than to have the man report in traffic, while driving.
“Really, Inspector.” He grinned. “I’m still a cop, you know.”
“Okay, okay.” So, he had his sources. “More than just a pretty face, then.”
Alphonse snorted at that one. He cleared his throat.
Not just a pretty face.
“Sir. It sort of took a minute to sink in. By this time, they were well past, and I was craning my neck like crazy. The mirror was just all wrong, there was no way. Anyways, I don’t think they realized I was following. I had to pull a quick U-turn, and then just creep along beside the parking lane…and this is the part you’re not going to believe, uh, Inspector.”
“What? What am I not going to believe.”
“It was a woman, Inspector. Unbelievable. Brogues, sir.”
“Brogues?”
“You know—sturdy English walking shoes…long socks with garters, the britches, the hat and the cape—fucking everything.” Wool socks and all tweed, mostly. “Hell, I’ll bet she even had wool underwear.”
“And you say it was a woman?”
“Yeah. I could only go so slow. Also, I am supposedly waiting for you, right…and I’ve gone off on my own. For reasons which might be hard to explain.”
“And so?”
“She was on the right side, going east mostly. The traffic light was red, and there I was. First in line, dead stop, and then she turns and crosses the street right in front of me.” Heading south, at this particular intersection.
“You got a good look?”
The eyes came up in the mirror, as Alphonse reached for the key and the starter-button.
“Yes, sir. A real fucking Amazon. I suppose it was the makeup, the eyelashes…ruby red lips. Yes, it was a woman all right, or as near as makes, well, not much of a difference.”
Alphonse nodded.
“That one is built, ah, like a brick shit-house.”
“Really. Ha.”
“I did a few blocks, trying to follow along, but she shook me off…it’s real hard to say if it was deliberate. She may have just, er, gotten to where she was going. And then, I had a fucking puncture.”
“A puncture!”
“Yes, sir. It never fails, does it. The spare was flat.” Alphonse had jacked her up and pulled the wheel. “I had to hoof it, rolling a fucking wheel along and looking for any kind of service station.”
Which, as everyone knew, could be damned hard to come by in this ancient, central part of the city. He’d huffed and puffed his way for three-quarters of a kilometre and then got lucky, as he put it.
“Very well. Hmn. Interesting, Alphonse—thank you, thank you very much.”
The engine fired up and he began checking the mirror for traffic. He eased her out and they were going.
A real fucking Amazon.
It was like Alphonse read his thoughts.
“Tall, sir. Real tall. But a woman, ah—almost for sure, sir.”
“Alphonse.”
“Sir.”
“This may seem like an odd question, but in your impression…has anyone been paying us any sort of special attention? I mean lately.”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“I mean, like has anyone been following us lately.” Merde.
Alphonse craned his head and gave Gilles a direct look.
Turning back, he gave a quick shake of the head. Wordless.
Their eyes met in the mirror, and Alphonse gave a nod. If nothing else, he’d keep an eye out back, as it were.
END
Images. Le Citroen Traction Avant.
(Otherwise stolen from the internet. - ed.)
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