Louis Shalako: A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 31. Louis Shalako.

You.

Louis Shalako.

Their thinking on the car had been mucky, very mucky indeed. They were chasing their tails on that one…that had been the last thought that went through his head.

It had been a long day. Gilles woke up in his chair, a glass of cognac barely touched beside him. There were times when the hips just ached lately.

Merde.

He’d been hoping to avoid it, just this once, but it seemed he was unable to escape himself, his routine. His tiredness—his exhaustion, his depression, his ineffable loneliness.

The reliance on the alcohol, as a substitute for any other kind of a life—

Sleep, the last refuge of the truly unhappy.

Gibbon, or so he thought.

Yes, Gibbon. The Decline and Fall—of Gilles Maintenon, this time around.

He looked at the ash tray, and it seemed that he’d at least had the sense to stub out that last one. Wouldn’t want to set the cat on fire. The chair might have been another story. Sylvestre had to be somewhere around there, the animal getting older now, not so much inclined to prowl, but to sit up high on the end of the couch, or in the exact middle of Gilles’ bed—there were other beds, other rooms, but that was the way cats just were. He’d apparently had the foresight to get out of his clothes…shabby slippers, fuzzy socks knitted by an elderly aunt, a gift of several Christmases ago…bottoms, an undershirt and a striped bathrobe. The cat always wanted to sit in his lap when it was least convenient, and to avoid him like the plague when he was ready.

The room was a bit chilly, with a couple of windows open a crack to admit just a sliver of the night air.

The radio was much too loud, and he groaned.

“Oh, God.” One almost had to think about it these days, putting hands upon knees and clambering up. “Shit.”

Gilles made it up, finally, and went over to the radio.

He turned it down.

“Sylvestre. Sylvestre?”

Well, as long as I’m up—and out of the chair. The cognac was room temperature, and he’d refresh that in a minute, but first. The hips were not good, stiff and with a sensation…not exactly pain, but a mild soreness. The left knee would hurt to the touch, and so he didn’t touch it.

He had to pee. Yes, and after that, probably, some small trickle down the leg. It was the price of getting old. It was all that dancing, he thought.

Fuck. Not that he regretted it. Not exactly.

Other than that, it was still sort of early, not that it really meant anything these days, and Sophie had left something for him, something which he simply hadn’t been able to face, not at first, not without a drink at least, upon coming home from work. One drink had turned into three, at least three.

But first, the bathroom.

And there was still something about the car. It would come to him, probably at two-thirty seven a.m., as such things often did.

Argh.

***

Fuck this shit, I am out of here...

The thoughts of food were ambivalent indeed, and yet he knew he had to eat once in a while, besides, there was an element of curiosity. The kitchen smelled oddly neutral when he got there, but there was definitely a casserole or something in the refrigerator, he’d had a quick slug of cold milk in lieu of anything else when he’d gotten home…

There was a sound.

“Sylvestre?”

There was a quick thump.

The cat scuttled across the kitchen floor, coming from the area, the little cul de sac leading to the storage closet, or the back window where he perched sometimes, looking out over the barren and unkempt courtyard with its overflowing bins, run-down little sheds and vague attempts at gardening by the truly poor tenants. All of those garrets, up under the eaves. The animal headed for the front rooms, turning hard right at high speed, claws scratching at the worn brown linoleum. He was gone in an instant, and Gilles wondered what was up.

Hmn. He had to admit, he’d kind of been strangers lately…I’m not that bad, am I.

He turned to the counter, where the bottle stood, and tossed off the last dregs of the warm stuff. It was better at room temperature anyways. He was just pouring and a snap came from the door, and a sudden cold draft hit the back of his neck.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

He turned, mouth open—

“You.”

“Yes, Gilles. Me.”

Schleicher—

Schleicher.

“Merry Christmas. So. Are you surprised.”

***

“I could have sworn I locked that door.”

“Oh, don’t worry Gilles. You did. No, it’s not like you’re losing your mind or anything like that.”

The person stood there beaming.

“Well. No doubt you are wondering why I am here.”

“No. Non—but no one ever does anything for no reason—”

Schleicher nodded.

“That’s very perceptive, Gilles.” He considered.

“Yes, that’s very good, in a masturbatory, self-indulgent, decadent sort of a way.” Hmn. “One supposes, that you would have to have had something to say, anything at all, under such circumstances…”

“You’re the degenerate here.”

“Now Gilles. That doesn’t seem very friendly.”

There were wet footprints across the linoleum, and the winds were whipping up, tugging at the branches from a young sycamore, overgrown to some extent, and much too close to the building, as they slapped at the windows in the back room.

“Do you mind?” Gilles raised the glass and drank.

“Oh, ever so sorry, old boy.” Reaching back with the left hand, never taking his eyes off of Gilles, he gave a push and the hallway door snicked fully closed.

“Pour one for me. For later, Gilles.”

Gilles nodded and began to move.

“Careful.”

“This is where the glasses are kept, mon ami.”

It was hard to turn one’s back. Yes, cool, as cool as a cucumber.

He took his time about it, not that it would buy much time. He set the glass down on the near side of the kitchen table.

There. That’s better.

“So, what can I do for you, old chap.” Maintenon bit it off, the accent near-perfect.

English, spoken with a German accent—not that it proved anything in particular.

Schleicher nodded.

“Well, ever so sorry, and all of that sort of thing, old boy. It’s just that I’ve come here to kill you.” A hand reached, and undid the next button on the cape. “Not much of a present, but as they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

The hand reached in, the right hand, and pulled out a gleaming blade…all forty-five centimetres of it or so, and waved it around under the light, and it glittered in Gilles’ eyes, and even in Schleicher’s eyes.

"Are you salivating yet, mon ami?"

“Are you salivating yet, mon ami?” The contempt was real.

Maintenon’s face was very stiff.

He shouldn’t have drank that—he might have tossed it in the other’s face and maybe even had half a chance. It was a sinking feeling on the realization. It must have shown in his face…knives, fuck, a large pot or pan, a chair maybe, but he was a little too far from the sink, the counter, the drawer, the other room even, and there wouldn’t be enough time anyways. He’d had his last drink.

Throwing plates and saucers at the man didn’t seem like much of an option—

Schleicher grinned.

“Yes, Gilles. It’s all over now.”

Yes, Gilles, but why me.

END