Louis Shalako: A Stranger In Paris, Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 22.

...something of a philosopher...

Louis Shalako

Gilles took a cab, as it was halfway across town and he couldn’t really justify it as being on police business. If he was late coming back, he had all kinds of sick-time and even holidays owed to him. He could always pull rank, glower at someone, anyone, really, and stomp off in a big huff. He would save that one as a last resort.

Hell, it might even come to that, the way things were going lately.

Gilles found Hector at the very back of their old watering hole, a favorite from years and years ago, which while noisier than really comfortable with serving staff coming and going from the kitchen, had the advantage of being away from the glare of the front windows. The two nearest tables were still sitting empty. Back then, the attraction had been that it was on both of their respective beats…the food was hot, good and filling, and best of all, cheap. He sat there blinking, uttering a sigh of contentment.

It really was good to escape for a while.

The non-descript army surplus bag which held Vachon’s cameras, flashes, film canisters, all the paraphernalia of modern reporting was on the seat between them, their hats on another seat. He never went anywhere without it, the green bag blending in well enough with the grey trench coat, blue corduroy trousers, a shirt sans tie, a knitted sweater-vest, and an old pair of boots. A brown flat cap, the overall look more in line with the working classes than with the bourgeoisie for whom he ostensibly worked. While he could certainly write, it was the pictures that really made it work for him, in terms of being able to make a living. He was a man doing exactly what he wanted to do, and admirable enough for all of that.

“Ah. Gilles. I was starting to wonder.” Vachon threw his menu down and Gilles idly picked it up.

“I won’t hold you to the liver, Gilles.”

Maintenon grinned, and a female figure leaned in to deposit a small pitcher, foaming up and over with the smell of beer. Glasses, paper coasters, and a second menu for Gilles.

Vachon poured for them, then shook salt into his palm, peering through half-glasses to carefully scrape a few grains into the foam. Sipping, he smacked his lips appreciatively.

“Yeah, that makes it all worthwhile.”

Gilles had his own glass, and thoughtfully tried a little salt on there, although he could live without it, where Hector probably couldn’t.

“How’s your doctor treating you these days?”

“Oh, fine. Fine. Not too many complaints.”

Vachon nodded.

“He still lets you smoke, then—”

Gilles nodded, allowing himself to relax. Vachon would get back at him of course.

This was just the warm-up.

Fuck it, liver and onions it is...

***

After teasing Hector, his stomach audibly groaning at least once during a quiet lull in the background roar, Gilles had handed over the menu and ordered the liver and onions.

Hector was giving him a pained look, but grilling that wouldn’t take any longer than any of the other options.

The young lady was just putting their plates down. Gilles cast his eyes around the room, slightly over one shoulder as Hector had his back to the wall, and while the table was angled into a corner, his back was to the rest of the room. And there was a familiar face, at a table with a couple of other males.

Perhaps his eyes had taken some time to adjust to the light, or maybe he just hadn’t looked, but if that wasn’t Baille sitting there, he’d sure like to know who—

And there was fucking Hector and the camera—the notebook, and the pen to consider.

Hopefully Vachon hadn’t noticed the slight start of shock, and Gilles had quickly cast his eyes back down to his plate and begun cutting into the corner of the meat, which smelled pretty damned good…

Judging by the slight widening of the eyes, a slight movement of the head, the quick twist of one corner of the mouth, eyes quickly dropped, Baille had recognized him as well.

Gilles cut another piece.

“Um. Fantastic. My mother used to make it, and my grandmother as well. She’d soak it in milk, you know, and then she had her own special herbs to go with the breading. Ann, now, she didn’t like it and so, it just kind of fell off of my own, personal menu, you know.” Hell, even the gravy seemed somehow special.

“Uh, huh.”

Pure coincidence had just reared its ugly head.

As for the other two, one, like Gilles had his back mostly to the room. The other, in a three-quarters side profile, was in the next chair to Baille. There was something about the three of them, neatly dressed, hair combed, quite slicked in fact, hats stacked on the empty chairs, but Maintenon had the impression that their conversation was more business than pleasure.

He couldn’t quite recall Baille’s address—presumably it was in the notes somewhere, but this part of the city was a bit off the beaten path for ambitious young men of a political bent.

No, this quarter was more prone to the sort of folks who just didn’t have time for ideologies and political theorizing, what with the need to feed, house and clothe themselves and their children, not to mention looking after their aging parents, and staying out of trouble with the law. This was especially true of the younger ones.

***

Vachon.

The pair had finished their meals and were just waiting for dessert and coffee.

Gilles took the opportunity to use the restroom, rising casually and trying to be unobtrusive insofar as the other two parties could see him. They might possibly recognize him, something else entirely, if they had the awareness and read the papers often enough. It was a question of having his back to them, and looking off to the other side as if fascinated by a couple of ladies with feathers and fruit salads on their hats…he gave them a polite little nod.

One quick flick of the left eye…as if that were possible.

The three men seemed deep in quiet conversation, and yet there was none of that friendliness, the cheerful banter. Whatever they were talking about, it seemed serious enough. Baille was definitely aware of him as he turned the corner and entered a short hallway, where the ladies’ was first and the gentil-hommes second. Assuming one could even find a gentleman around here. The third door was probably a closet, stuffed with mops and brooms or maybe the linens, although it really wasn’t that kind of a place.

There was no one in the single stall, and no one at the urinals. He was ready to go, with good flow and no hesitation, although at his age a bit of a dribble might be expected. No shy kidneys here—there was nothing worse than just standing there, wishing.

Washing his hands, he could only wait so long. Apparently, Baille could not take the hint, or perhaps he just did not wish to be seen with Maintenon. Gilles could see his point, and of course Baille didn’t know Vachon was a reporter, representing both obvious and perhaps unknown dangers in his own right.

He sighed, dried his hands.

Once out of the hallway, the trio was gone. There was a girl clearing cups, saucers and spoons, no food appeared to have been consumed…she’d already taken the ashtrays, and Vachon’s eyes were upon him.

He sat, looking at the glass cup of rice pudding, which he hadn’t actually ordered. It looked like Vachon had gotten his own revenge. Still, it was better than the green jelly.

“Your friend went to get up.”

“Huh?”

“One of the other ones put his hand on his arm and he subsided…rather reluctantly in my impression. I think he wanted to go to the bathroom. But, after some hasty and low-pitched discussion, they threw money down on the table.”

Gilles regarded Hector.

“Go on.”

“Well, I guess he decided he could hold it. Anyways, they all got their coats on and headed for the door. It looked like they all piled into the back of one very big, very long and very low black car.”

“Oh, really.”

“He didn’t seem to be under any real duress, Gilles. Not all that eager to go, either. He just went.”

“I see.”

Vachon grinned and nodded.

“I really am a reporter, you know—a journalist, Maintenon. We go back a long ways, in case you forget. I guess you could say I know you well enough.”

He nodded.

“Anyways, here’s the film.”

Gilles stared.

“What? The film…”

Vachon nodded wryly.

“Yes, mon ami. The film.”

Stolen pictures, sneaky pictures.

He pulled a hand up from his lap, and there it was, the cutest little 35-mm camera, sort of a patterned matte-black finish and a minimum of chrome, the kind where you push a button and the lens and bellows sort of folds and tucks back inside, and then, when he turned over his right hand, laying on the table, was a roll of film.

“I couldn’t use the flash, Gilles. It’s just a faint click, and they didn’t seem to notice. It cranks over pretty quietly. The light’s pretty low in here. Tell your technical guy about that, okay. This is ASA 400, tell him not to push it too hard. It should be fairly well focused, as I had time to think about it…anyhow, I got all three faces…whoever that kid was, he saw you go by, Gilles, and he was definitely making noises about the men’s room.”

Gilles took the film.

A big, black car, or so you say—

Their server was back with the check, which was really the bill, when one thought about it. Hector was reaching for his wallet.

Ah, but Gilles was reaching for the check, before Vachon could even get to it.

Hector sat there grinning. He could at least take care of the tip.

“Gilles.”

They were about to rise.

“Instead of thinking like a Frenchman all the time, why don’t you try something else for a while—”

Maintenon laughed, reaching for his hat.

END