Louis Shalako: A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 30. Louis Shalako.

Wrong car, right place.

Louis Shalako.

“Well. There it is, then.”

Alphonse regarded Gilles, the light from the windows in the far end throwing everything into a weird light, backlit and foreshadowed and all of that sort of thing. At this time of year, a quarter to eight, the sun had barely shown up above the horizon, let alone really gotten going—yet it was there.

There were lights, metal pots hanging down from above. The light switch, to the right of the man door as opposed to the vehicle doors with their cables and springs and their overhead tracks. The lights worked well enough. There was still electricity, maybe even a trickle of heat. It was all very quiet, still, no one seemed to have noticed, or cared about them. They all had their own business to attend to, as a small forklift trundled past their open door. Another working class son of a bitch, working the weekend…

And then there was the car, and the first real sunlight in days breaking through the windows and the slot windows in a big overhead door on what had to be the northeast side of the building…walking over, looking out, there were ruts and weeds, but essentially nothing, any scrap tires and wheels, any parts or decrepit vehicles were long since gone.

And then there was the car.

The car was parked in the centre of a fairly large room, with benches and windows above, on the back wall, with skylights overhead and the floor bare but smooth concrete. There was an enclosed space to their left, with a door, two doors actually, more windows, this time on the interior, this would be the office where records were kept, and a service manager to write up the work orders, take the money and all of that. To direct the mechanics and the staff.

If only there had been anything to direct, but the space had been empty for a very long time. The only real odour was of mould, or must or mildew, words which all basically meant the same thing. There was a grill, a drain in the middle of the shop floor. It looked dry enough, but even so, there was that smell. There were all kinds of shelves from floor to ceiling along the inner walls. There was nothing on them except perhaps dust. Looking closer, on the smaller, narrower shelves were rings from leaky tins and bottles, on some of the wider upper shelves the marks of tire treads, mostly from a long time ago. Those would have been new tires.

As for the car—it was everything they had said it would be, and it was more, and it was less.

Long, low and lean, this one had been polished to perfection, which would tend to obscure any fingerprints and of course it was all just bullshit, as Alphonse had said, with Gilles standing there silently, sort of absorbing the atmosphere and drinking in the scene.

Listening, even, to the surroundings. It all seemed quiet enough out there.

“Gilles.”

“Yes, Alphonse?”

“This is not a Mercedes SSK.” He pointed. “There are no big, swoopy chrome exhaust pipes…”

His instincts were in full cringe mode.

Merde.

Gilles shrugged. More bullshit...

He shook his head—the coincidence was just too much, and yet it was the wrong car—maybe, at least one witness had been dead sure. No, but how in the hell were they going to explain this.

He gave Gilles a chastened look. And damn it all, he’d been right, after all. Here was the big car, right where he’d figured it ought to be—perhaps true strong a term, but he’d been right.

“Sorry, Boss. I guess we’d better wait for the forensics boys, and our warrant…before we go too much further.” He was just dying to open up the desk, or the drawers under the long counter in the office area…there appeared to be a back door and some kind of open space out there, and he was tempted to go out there and really look.

Gilles shrugged.

“Well. How much do you want to bet?”

Alphonse nodded.

How much do you want to bet.

“Er—I think I’ll pass on this one.”

It was a very good question, wasn’t it.

“Should I get on the radio?”

Gilles nodded.

“Yes. And tell them we need another of the, er—let’s call them one of the open warrants.” The problem with the radio was that the press had their own and paid someone to just sit there and listen. “Make sure it’s Levain or somebody that knows what we’re talking about.”

Call the Unit, and not the dispatcher.

“Yes, sir.” He turned and moved off, never in a hurry and yet never late, either.

Good old Roberval, he might not have thought of everything, but he’d thought of a few things and that was interesting, in and of itself. Alphonse had wondered about the blank warrants.

***

It was inevitable that such a case must, eventually get pushed to the back burner. They had new cases, there were always new cases. Virtually all of them, almost any of them, had a better chance of being solved. There were victims and witnesses, persons-of-interest, suspects, even people in custody. Fuck, the bodies had at least been properly identified. There was the chance, perhaps some very good chances, of getting a conviction in a court of law. The resources had to go where they would do the most good, and that was just professionalism. That didn’t mean you had to like it, it was just good policy.

There were times when good policy really sucked.

This was just one of those times.

It was getting near quitting time, and the initial report on their mystery car had just been sent up.

Alphonse was not in the garage, but responded to radio calls after a while, having nipped out to grab a sandwich or two, an apple and a banana, a carton of milk. He’d agreed to work an afternoon shift for an old friend whose kid was sick and in the hospital. This would be a giveaway shift, rather than a mutual which would have to be repaid...

Good old Alphonse, racking up the hours as usual.

Back in the Unit, spectacles sliding down his nose, the man in question finally looked up.

“Jesus, H. Christ.”

“I agree, Alphonse.” Gilles wondered where he might find some aspirin—surely there must be someone in the building with a few aspirin, but his headache showed all the signs of getting worse, and possibly a long one—

He’d have to wait.

Their car, a Bugatti, had fake license plates. Not stolen, but fakes, and good ones too. Not pasteboard or painted wood, these had been stamped out of thin metal plates with an actual die.

No identifying documents, ownership or insurance, or anything useful inside the vehicle. Wiped down for fingerprints. The vehicle identification tag had been removed. The carpet had been cleaned, the windows as well. Not a speck of dirt on the thing…major serial numbers ground off, on the frame for example, and of course it would take real time to dismantle such a machine…there were only a small number of such cars. It was a beautiful car. There had been one thing: a roll of tooth floss in the glove box, no kidding, and that was all that had been found.

“Gilles. Somebody took that thing apart. Took off all the serial numbers, and then put it back together again.” It was as much a question as a statement.

He shook his head, getting no response from Maintenon other than a small shrug.

Playthings of the very rich, such vehicles tended to be scattered all over the planet. Such people liked their privacy, and the actual company was not being all that helpful, although it was only day one on that subject. Considering the actual machine, someone over there should be able to identify it. It would take some persuading to get them involved or so it seemed. The company was known for their persistent money problems, and perhaps that had something to do with it. Also, the publicity would be unwelcome under the circumstances.

No one had reported any such vehicle missing or stolen.

Officers had chased down two or three of their witnesses, quick work as the photos had to be printed and distributed. It took time to locate such witnesses, and it took time to go across town, to their home, to their work, their place of business. A team effort, and all for what? It was the wrong car.

The wrong car—

Theoretically.

But one could see what anyone else would see, in that any advocate for the defense, hell, even the prosecutor, the judge, the jury, any idiot—anyone could see that it was the wrong car.

Funny thing was, they might even be right.

And yet it was only half the story.

Then there was the space itself. According to the landlord, it had become vacant four or five months earlier, and had not been let out since. As surmised, it had been an automotive shop. Leaving it in the same condition was a condition of the lease, and the previous firm had in fact cleaned up the rear yard, and no, there had been no big black car in there on his most recent inspection of about a month previously.

The phone company confirmed this. No phone for the last few months. As for heat and light, it was useful when showing to prospects, as the landlord said, and with a whole row of units, it was easy enough to allow just enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing. A small price to pay, as he said.

As for the lock, Alphonse had his theory.

“They did what I did, Gilles. They cut it off, or picked the lock. Considering who, or what they are, that last part is not out of the question. All they have to do then, is to go off up the street to the nearest hardware store and buy another lock.” Five or ten francs would do it.

Five or ten francs would do it.

“I would have bought the lock beforehand, somewhere far off across town.”

Alphonse nodded at the logic.

“True.”

To pull up and do the lock would take a minute. It would be better than walking up with bolt cutters inside a long coat. The vehicle itself would give good cover. All it took was balls…and a reason. Small, lock-picking tools could go down the nearest sewer, something not as easy with bolt-cutters.

“It’s not like they actually had to do anything there. It would be the work of five minutes just to stash the car.” After killing Vachon.

He didn’t say it.

“Or, the car might have been there for some time.” The problem there, was how or why to lead the cops to it—unless they had known ahead of time. “The street door has a spring latch…”

Set the lock and slam it behind you, and that was about it. There was a keyed deadbolt above it, a separate installation, but their perpetrators hadn’t been too worried about security. But when and why? The window of opportunity was pretty long in this event, as he called it.

If they had known about the lunch date in time, for example. It was possible Vachon had been frequenting the place, but why him? Unless it had something to do with Gilles—

“Ah.” It still all came down to the question of why.

“Here’s another thing. Assuming they drop the car, how do they get away? Now we’re looking for witnesses, we’re looking for any clue as to some other vehicle…” Alphonse trailed off.

It was all just more bullshit.

Gilles grunted.

“Sure. You pull up, open the lock, park inside. Jump in a similar car. Go out, lock up, and drive away.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that.” Alphonse was sort of impressed, but Gilles had a damned quick mind.

“Hmn.” Gilles thought.

It was the right people—he knew that. It was the right people, planting the wrong car, as for why, or why not, that was hard to say. But they seemed to have a pretty good handle on how the police worked, how they thought. What they might be likely to find out, sooner or later. They knew who his friends were, maybe.

If nothing else, they seemed to have a pretty good idea of how to beat a court case, if it ever really came down to that.

If only they had the time—

If only they had the time.

If only he had the patience.

Patience is a virgin, as Hector had once said.

***