Thursday, December 29, 2022

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery, #9, Pt. 24. Louis Shalako.

It's a free bar, Gilles...











 Louis Shalako



“…it’s all right, Gilles, and I will understand if you can’t do it—”

“No, no, that’s fine.”

“Anyhow, Hector’s youngest will be doing the eulogy. A small, private affair, although one or two of us will be making an appearance.” Due to the news people, it might be better if he didn’t show up at all.

So far, Maintenon’s name had been kept out of the papers. That would only last so long.

“Yes, sir.”

“So here’s the thing. We get these complimentary tickets, they’re not addressed to anyone in particular. Public relations people do it all the time, sending them out all over the place in the hopes of attracting publicity, good reviews, or whatever.”

He cleared his throat, the internal line crisp and clear just this once.

“It’s not a costume ball, Gilles, and it’s not entirely a formal affair, although the master of ceremonies may be in, ah, tails, Gilles. No, just a suit and a tie—the food may be all right, and you can leave any time you want. No question of a speech, as far as I can tell—”

Gilles sighed, deeply.

“Very well, when is this—”

There were six tickets, according to Langeron, and he could dispose of them at his own discretion. As to whether Roger was going, that seemed unlikely.

“It’s the International Mystery Writers Guild, their annual awards banquet, and if nothing else, it’s a free meal—a few grip-and-grins with the attendees, eh, Gilles.” He was referring to photo opportunities…sweaty-handed fans, no less.

The whole thing stank to high heaven, as Roger put it, and yet it could still be the highest form of coincidence. A shitty little coincidence, and yet he felt it should be followed up.

His instincts were telling him all kinds of things, and Maintenon was forced to agree. It was better than doing nothing.

It was better than thinking like a Frenchman all of the time.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have that sent right over, Gilles. And thank you. I won’t suggest that you have a good time, because I suspect that isn’t going to happen…” There was a program, the whole thing should wrap up by midnight, assuming they could stick to any kind of a schedule.

Other than that, please try and keep an open mind.

Gilles glanced up, noting the clock and the fact that the room had quickly emptied.

Nothing is as painful as the clock.

And there it was.

Another drop-kick, le savate, right to the nuts.

Drowning in a sea of loneliness, we clutch at straws—Roger was a friend, in some odd way, some words that had never been expressed.

There was nothing to do but listen. It was one of his skills…a flashback, in real time. To a conversation he’d just had. We clutch at straws.

“What are you trying to tell me, Roger.”

“Well, it’s just the usual thing, Gilles. Except—except, this one feels different. It’s too much of a coincidence. We get this beautifully-written letter, all on official letterhead, and the fact is, it’s genuine. We had a junior officer check. It’s not addressed to anyone in particular, except the public relations department, and it’s not asking for anyone in particular. Other than that, it’s a handful of complimentary tickets, to the awards banquet of the Mystery Writers Guild International. They would be ever so honoured if someone would turn out, if not, please distribute these to friendly members of the press. One of whom might have been Hector. Er, not exactly the exact words, Gilles. It’s just an event. Which just happens to be held in Paris this year. Last year, it was Los Angeles, and the word is, next year, Tokyo is a strong contender…”

There was more, of course, there always was.

For one thing, Roger had his instincts, as he put it.

Roger has his instincts, as he put it...
***

There was a click and line was dead. Just like a lot of other things.

The thoughts, the thoughts, the lines, had tumbled over and over in his head.

He’d said something else that was interesting: they’d probably been doing it for years, the free tickets and everything, and yet there was no record of anyone ever attending. That being said, such things tended to get tossed in the wastebasket, glossed over without much thought.

***

“Mao…?”

“Ah, Sylvestre.”

The cat, lord of the manor and man of the house during normal, daytime hours, bored out of his skull and not exactly overworked on the mousing detail, sat in the hall doorway, and Gilles felt a moment of guilt.

Truth is, the cat hasn’t seen much of me lately—and that was just sad.

When he got home, the cat was there, the mail was there. A bill or two, with the due date, and almost indecipherable with the small charges, the hidden, bogus fees, and other sneaky stuff which he had taken to despising without actually doing much about it. One of these days, he would have to call these people; and give them a little piece of his mind.

The kitchen smelled like food, although Sophie had gone by now. He had the feeling that he had missed something, perhaps even lost something. People had to tell him everything twice these days, or so it seemed, before he got it—really got it.

What in the hell was wrong with him these days?

And the answer, surprisingly simple, was probably not much at all.

***

It was the morning after the day before.

“So. How do you want to play this?” Margot had one very good question.

“It is a request from higher authority. I can’t order anyone to do this.” Or won’t.

He stood regarding a handful of tickets to the ball on the scarred maple desk.

“I can, however, authorize the overtime.”

She pursed her lips on hearing that one.

By any examination, they were just like any other ticket, six of them numbered in sequence. No indication that they were freebies. In his experience, a doorman would hardly even look at them, and they might have been available not just from a box office but any number of other locations…his thoughts sort of raced. Mailed with a fairly generic letter from the public relations department, going out to all kinds of media outlets and useful elected fools, celebrities of one sort or another. There might have been quite a long list, just fishing, as it were. An equal number of programs, on thick, heavy paper, decoratively printed in some Art Deco, fin de siècle font…

All very convincing, and genuine as far as anyone could determine on short notice. And here it was again, one more line of inquiry, one more line of bullshit—one more big waste of time and resources. One more oar in the water, one more finger in the pie. One more cook, bent on spoiling the broth.

As Gilles put it bitterly enough.

“Hector would have gone.” Joseph—

Maintenon’s face hardened.

“Seriously, Gilles.” The little man went on. “Think of the opportunity—two fucking hundred Sherlocks, all in the same room. Him and his bag of cameras, shaking hands, talking to people, and listening. Really, really listening…”

The one skill that couldn’t be taught, but could only be learned.

And maybe even getting quite a lot out of it, as Joseph said…more than just a story and some pictures in a magazine.

“It’s an open bar, Gilles.”

Yes, Hector would have loved that. You could almost see the man at work.

Gilles nodded.

Roger had his instincts. It really did stink, didn’t it? Roger had suggested two things, one; wear a bullet-proof vest, and two, bring your own little pistol, as he had put it.

“Va te faire foutrez…”

Joseph threw his head back and laughed.

Margot nodded.

Margot would not miss it for the world.


“I’m in. Quite frankly, I would not miss this for the world.”

He had the feeling she meant it, too. Take one for the team, all of that sort of thing, and that was good to know as well.

“Think about it, Gilles. It’s a fucking party. They’re not asking for a speech. It’s not a costume ball, although at least some of them will be that dumb. It’s not a black-tie, fancy-dress ball, either. Just some fair-to-middling food, and that is a pretty good hotel as I recall.” Joseph, arms crossed and feet dangling from the chair.

Music, dancing, and a little light entertainment, all culminating in a rather prestigious awards ceremony—yes, he was lucky.

They had not asked him for a speech…

Gilles sighed, deeply.

“Well, that’s three of us, anyways.” He’d ask the others when they came in.

Some of them, any of them, all of them. Three more tickets.

“Wasn’t there a monkey in one of them old Conan Doyle stories?” LeBref had this look on his face, and Margot was openly laughing at him.

“Well, if that is what you think is best, Joseph…although you’ll have to get a move on, if you want to find a costume in time.” She winked one over his way.

Hell, even Gilles had to smile at that one. In the end, Joseph would do his job, as well as anyone else, and he was always a good man to have around.

How he handled it was his problem.

End

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty-One.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

 

Louis has books and stories on Google Play. Many of them are free.

See his stuff on Fine Art America.

And here is the proverbial cooking blog, not updated all that recently.

 

 

Author’s note. I began this novel in 2020, wrote about 20,000 words, and then petered out, same thing again in 2021. When I started up again in late 2022, the novel stood about 39,000 words. Now it’s 46,000 and counting. I hope to finish the book this winter. Other than that, the initial spurt seemed a bit repetitive, but all of that sort of thing gets smoothed out in a hundred reads, re-writes, and just filling out the book after the author gets to the end of the plot. I have to know how it ends, and then if necessary, I can go back and throw in a clue, here and there, and hopefully make sense of it all in the end.

Thank you for reading.

 

#Louis


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