Louis Shalako: A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery, #9, Pt. 32. Louis Shalako.

...is it too late for the second act...???

Louis Shalako.

“So, what you are saying, is that you plan on knocking me on the head…somehow drugging me.” The thought had just occurred to him—the thoughts raced. “Yes. You didn’t even have to get it right. How could you know, whether I would be drinking cognac one day, wine the next, red or white, and perhaps a cold beer the next.”

All they had to do was to drug, or to poison every bottle.

“Or have you brought a syringe and a vial of something with you, in a side pocket…”

Schleicher stood there, actually lowering the knife.

“Go on, Gilles. I have always admired your thought processes.”

“Yes. Then, in one final insult, you cut off all of my fingers—and thumbs, and presumably, you have a way to take them away with you.” A baby-food jar, a small jam or jelly jar. “Then, you get to hack away at the face, which will no doubt give you much pleasure, perhaps even an erection. No one will doubt it was me, and yet, at the same time, no one will ever be able to prove, to really prove, that it was me. Really me. Yes, I have to congratulate you on your ingenuity. Quite frankly, the whole thing is pure genius.”

He went on—all those pockets, that big coat, he could see it all.

“A big handkerchief, gloves of course, and perhaps a bit of oilskin rag or something. You know, for the fingers and stuff. Yes, I see now. What else? A fucking suicide note? Even you would balk at that.”

“Oh, Gilles. Ha. I think we can rule out suicide.”

Schleicher set the bayonet on the far corner of the kitchen table, almost daring Gilles to dive for it, reaching into a deep side pocket.

He had a silenced pistol.

“I’m going to have to ask you to sit down, Gilles. Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Sûreté, Special Homicide Unit.” There was a certain drawl in these words.

Gilles’ knees began to knock. He’s really going to do it, thought Maintenon, or, shoot him and have done with it. It was like he was cold, very cold. His hands shook and he couldn’t stop it. The bowels felt very loose—

He was playing for the last two minutes of his life.

And yet hope springs eternal. Almost anything could become a weapon, and he looked wildly around, for anything, almost anything at all would do—but there was nothing.

Schleicher, in no hurry, watched with a faint grin.

Nothing—a chair maybe, but they were so heavy—his eyes seized on the unbelievable.

Schleicher must have caught the look, the sudden intake of breath, and took a quick glance over his shoulder, where a purse hung off the back of the old maple spindle chair by the door.

He turned with a certain look on his face.

“Well. Looks like the lady’s forgotten her purse—she’s probably halfway home on the bus at this point…”

He raised the pistol.

He never did get to finish the sentence.

The pantry door had always had that low-pitched squawk, stemming from the fact that the house had settled a bit over the years. The frame was no longer square, and right up on the top corner of the door, the paint and even a bit of the wood was worn away…the door swung open, and Schleicher, somehow, who could not possibly know about the cat, spun on one heel to meet the threat...it was a moment frozen in time. Gilles, was frozen in time—

But Sophie, Sophie was already firing.

Gilles dove for the right rear corner by the back window, as bullets had a real bad habit of going through things and people and walls and tables, and he was next in line—he was the next guy up, right in the line of fire.

You couldn’t really blame her, of course.

***

Sophie: one can hardly blame her...

“Sophie.”

“Yes, sir.” Her jaw quivered and she looked about ready to cry.

Gilles was still shaky, but a little happier about things all of a sudden…he’d be hurting tomorrow, and the knee was definitely not so good. Even so. He was alive.

“Sophie?”

Sophie, standing over the body, gun pointed downwards at forty or more degrees, the weapon braced with the other hand in a classic shooting position.

“I’m sorry. I really should have said something.” She sobbed.

Finally, she managed to lift her chin and meet his eyes. She put the gun up. She must have seen that in the movies.

“Say what?”

“Well. It’s just that I saw—I mean, I have seen, this person in the neighbourhood. I don’t know, ah, Inspector. There was just something about them. Look at the clothes, for example.” She gave a quick shake, all over.

“Huh. Ah.” At arm’s length, Sophie put the weapon on a corner of the table, sort of pointing it off into the front room, not pointing at anything or anyone in particular. “It’s only been the last few days. They just kept turning up.”

She sobbed.

“…I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Sophie.”

“Yes, sir, well. I was going out one morning, and this person was right there, at the bottom door, and they were going the same way. It was creepy to have them right there, at my shoulder so to speak. And then.”

“And then?”

“…and then, an hour and a half later, there they were again.” She’d gone out for baguettes, milk, coffee, butter. “They were going in the same direction as before, and I wondered where they had been in the meantime.” She let out a long, shuddering breath. “No one else around here…no one else around here warrants that sort of attention, if that makes any sense…”

She’d been reading the papers, apparently.

She’d looked out the window, to see them idling about on the street below. It all just seemed off.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She nodded.

“There’s more.”

“It’s all right, my dear. Just take your time.”

It seemed she had left for the day. Going down the stairs, still at the first landing, she’d seen a figure through the frosted glass and iron bars of the street-level door down below. She’d had the impression they’d been trying the door. Thinking furiously, she’d gone back to get Maintenon’s pistol. Then she’d gone out, stomping down the stairs and making sure to be heard—and indeed, there was this individual, a few metres away, pretending to look at a window display. It was a barber shop, and perhaps they were looking at the styles, a series of small posters up in the window, and something about the whole thing smacked as phony. The place had been closed since four-thirty or five, by this time.

There he was, looking weird...

He wavered on his feet, thinking. Thinking.

Just thinking.

The walls were thick, the floors strong, and the hallway doors were heavy. The windows were closed, at this time of night the neighbours were either out, or very much in, what with having an actual life—and a kitchen, newspapers, a radio, and friends, and relatives, and one or two kids over there as he recalled.

So far, no one was pounding at the door. That was about the least of his problems right now.

Four shots. Two, and then two again. Right into the centre of the body mass—right about where the heart ought to be, assuming a person even had one.

“If you don’t mind.”

She stood there, looking down at her feet and wringing her hands, and the tears flowed unabashed.

“Sophie. Why did you hang your purse right there?”

She was still showing a lot of white around the eyes…

“Oh, God. I don’t know. Just a habit, I guess.”

She’d gotten in through the far side, the left rear window, in what must have been a real inspiration. A neat trick, and with the creaky old iron fire escape under five or six centimetres of snow. His apartment was on the third floor, and it was pitch-black out there.

“Where’s your coat.”

She shrugged, matter-of-factly.

“It’s folded up, on top of the vegetable bins.” The pantry. “I was in there, sort of waiting…and it is a bit cool in there. But, the coat was just in the way.”

Her voice was low, hesitant, and she was about to begin blubbering again.

Hmn. There was nothing to say to that.

“So. You saw this person…you nipped back up and grabbed the weapon. Went back down…to let him see you were going home. Have I got that right? And then you went around the corner, through the alley, and up the fire escape.” No response.

Well, she would know if the window was unlatched or not, or maybe she had had the presence of mind to make sure on her way back out...

Sophie was in shock, and that part was understandable.

Gilles reached over and picked up the pistol, still warm from her hand. She’d put the safety on…she must have had some experience, either that or she had read all about it somewhere.

It seemed awfully intuitive…Sophie was nothing if not intelligent, perhaps even imaginative.

According to the serial number, it was his own weapon. A Beretta.

The one he kept in a drawer in his office. Of course, she must have come across it in her travels.

He’d have to ask her a little more about all of that, but first, she needed a chair and a drink of water or something. She needed a handkerchief, and he gave her one. She needed a little time, perhaps.

After that, Gilles needed to use the phone.

***

END