Louis Shalako: A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 26. Louis Shalako.

Louis Shalako

In the pre-dawn gloom, Gilles had felt the first few pin-pricks of cold wetness, blinking a bit in denial perhaps, and the car headlights, the streetlamps just up the way now revealed the awful truth…

“Nom de Dieu. Are those snowflakes?” He settled into the back seat, grateful for the heater and the fact that Alphonse had probably been driving for fifteen or twenty minutes just to get here.

She was all warmed up, the windows were clear and the wipers in good condition, knowing Alphonse...this one time Gilles had gone looking for him and found him down in the garage, hood up, rag in hand, and the engine just gleaming, and Alphonse sort of drinking in the smell of grease, petrol, coolant, brake fluid, wet rubber and glass cleaner.

“Yes, it’s the season for it. I can’t wait until it’s all over you know—” He eyed Gilles in the mirror; presumably, he was talking about Christmas.

Maintenon knew the feeling, actually. He allowed himself a bit of a sigh.

“Boss.” Tires hissed on pavement, and one particular gust rocked the vehicle discernably.

“Yes, Alphonse.”

“I was up in the room the other day. Somebody said something and I’ve been thinking about it.”

Tires hissed on wet pavement.

The stoplights up ahead were just about to change, he somehow knew it, and Alphonse concentrated on the driving for the moment. Sure enough…he pulled to a stop, left turn signal going…there was nothing there at this time of day, but one just had to wait patiently. They were cops, after all. He’d composed his thoughts.

“No. It’s just that a few people saw the black car, right. When Hector was killed. And that’s about all they remember. They do all agree, right. Ah, but there was this one witness. A real aficionado, sir. If you know what I mean.”

An aficionado.

“And?”

“The witness didn’t just see the car, Gilles. He watched it. Fuck, he ogled it. He looked at it with envy and longing, and some sort of a future dream in his head. Yeah, if I know guys like that. If he ever won the lottery, I mean a real big one. He would try and replicate that car. He loved it, Gilles. Also. He gave a very precise and observant description, far more than any of the others.” Black on black, inside and out, the only other thing was the chrome, lots of it, and according to the gentlemen, probably the best looking car in town. Big, swooping exhaust pipes coming out on either side up front.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to go up to the unit and read that report, ah, again, Inspector.”

“Sure. No problem—”

But there was more.

“The thing is, Gilles. The guy said it turned right at the third intersection. That’s the part that I’ve been thinking about.” They were rolling again, pedestrians on the sidewalks somehow familiar and yet anonymous at the same time.

The snowflakes were getting thicker, and bigger, and yet the street was still just black and wet.

“Ah.”

“Basically, I want to read the report for myself. Rather than just some random remark in passing, and then. Then I want to look at the map, not just this pissy little thing in the glove-box.”

Which he had surely already done, thought Maintenon.

“Absolutely.”

He thought. Alphonse must know every street, alley and cul-de-sac in town by now.

“Do you want to go out there today?” Perhaps around lunchtime—

No irony there, it was just a thought.

I’ll buy you lunch—

But he didn’t say it.

“No, I want to think about this. It depends on the map and the report. Besides—you guys got the big shindig on tonight.”

Maintenon nodded.

Yes, he was going to need his energy. Quite frankly, he was planning a nap, whether at his desk and in his chair, or maybe even on one of the long maple pews lining the walls of the hallway outside their office. An emergency blanket and a couple of cushions under his head, the thought of sleeping in his shoes somehow better than taking them off…

The benches were just too big, or he’d have had one dragged into the Unit. There was a reason people like him kept a spare shirt and a razor in their desk drawer. Clean socks and a new toothbrush. More than one reason, when one thought about it. What he really should have done, was to sleep in—something which he seemed incapable of, these days.

He had a ton of time off coming to him, something he actually dreaded.

Fuck.

“Very well.”

***

Four of them piled into the limousine, courtesy of Roger, Langeron that is to say, as well as what Maintenon assumed was either his current mistress, or possibly the new wife.

Either way.

Of course, the department had to have at least one limo—maybe even more than one.

For the sake of cover, or rather the lack of it, something for the tabloids perhaps—anyways, just in case, Margot and Gilles were going together, in something vaguely resembling logic. Alphonse, up in the front seat, did not need a ticket although he’d be around, as he put it—he’d be keeping the engine warm and no apologies for that. Racking up the overtime hours in his own inimitable fashion.

A couple of other tickets, plus increased police foot patrols in the immediate vicinity, a pair of radio vans aimlessly cruising nearby, meant that their backsides were about as covered as they could possibly be under such circumstances, which were murky at best. Someone had phoned around, trying to locate spare tickets, from friendly newspapers, the radio news organizations. A few literary and arts magazines. That part of the plan would leak like a sieve, although it might be a few hours. The plan was to flood the place with off-duty cops…all under orders to stay as sober as possible, keep an eye on the crowd and be ready for just about anything. He hadn’t heard back on that one. It struck him that at least a few proper journalists would check it out—free food and drink being a powerful inducement, considering their long hours, poor pay and pounding out the next great novel in a candle-lit garret somewhere in their off hours. One or two of them might even get a story out of it.

“All right. We had best be going.” Cold as it was, Gilles was sweating.

“Have you seen this, Gilles?” Langeron proffered a file folder with a few typewritten sheets.

He reached up and snapped on the interior light.

“Oh, God.” Gilles groaned after about three lines.

More bullshit—a delivery van, a company name that no one had ever heard of, and it probably didn’t exist except in someone’s fertile imagination, and a bunch of severed fingers…fuck. Sitting there for an entire week.

Phone line disconnected at about the same time as the last killing. The phone company would soon give them an address, and it too would be empty and deserted, perhaps an empty desk, a chair and a lamp, all pulled out of dustbins or picked up for a few francs from a second-hand shop. The city had a few hundred such shops, a thousand, or so one must assume. There’s another thousand man-hours. It was easy enough to get a phone line installed, all it took was a name, an address and a deposit.

Fuck.

There it was, right at the very bottom. The suspect vehicle, likely stolen, had been worked over pretty thoroughly. Stolen plates, (they might get something there if they had the time), vehicle identification number missing…serial numbers ground off the vehicle frame, engine and transmission. It sounded like someone had been very thorough. It looked like a fairly professional job. Police technicians would take it down, piece by piece and bolt by bolt. Virtually all of the really expensive parts had a serial number, and the original manufacturer would be contacted. If there was anything there to find, they would find it.

His instincts told him otherwise.

“Just more confirmation. Or more nonsense.” Roger had a point. “Okay, so all of this is a presentation. We had no big idea that the killings were unrelated. That’s about the farthest thing from our minds. The odds of getting fingerprints would appear to be rather small, but then of our known or imaginary victims, none of that information is available anyways. What, then is the point? Other than the fact that they can run circles around the police, and not much more. Otherwise—”

Otherwise, why not muffle the voice and call in from a phone booth, or leave some bullshit manifesto at the front desk of a newspaper. It had been done before, as often as not some kid, a wino, dropping it off for a few francs and thinking they were doing someone a favour. Such places were busy enough, with enough background distractions, such a person could drop an envelope on the reception counter, give a quick nod and a wave, and fade back out into the street, never to be seen again…sooner or later, someone would pick it up and open it up, just to see what the hell it was.

So. Why not? Why not just throw one more fuck into the system.

Why not.

***

END