Louis Shalako: 2023-01-08

Wednesday, January 11, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 28. Louis Shalako.

Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be.

Louis Shalako.

The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver.

The food was good—very good.

It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were engaged in a labor of love.

Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.

Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table, obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.

Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece, unexpectedly fixating on him, and giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around her.

He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid, as he hit on the end of his own cigar.

Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet, inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.

Off in one corner was a platform, and a small orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start up soon enough—

And then there was the dancing. Margot.

She had eyes too, right.

Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging slightly.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it, with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.

Margot was laughing at him.

Again—

That, was one very dangerous woman.

Her mouth opened and she stared.

He turned to look.

“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and shook her head.

Oh, my, is that Joseph...???

They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.

The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two. Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else, he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…

Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted remarks as the noise in the room picked up.

Would it never end.

There was that wine glass again.

The future is always rosier when viewed through the bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas, which he had read as a boy.

At least he thought he had.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Poor old Louis has books and stories in, on, or at, Kobo.

Author's Note: there is something weird about that first caption, but I can't seem to fix it.

See his alleged works on Fine Art America.

Thank you for reading.

Tuesday, January 10, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 27. Louis Shalako.

Rubbing elbows, as it were.

Louis Shalako

They said woman, the unfair sex, (wasn’t that Ambrose Bierce, the noted literary cynic?), was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, encompassed by an enigma, and a few more things besides. Bierce, as he recalled, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances…

Somewhere in the southern hemisphere. The Mexican Revolution or something like that.

Margot, on the other hand, was right there, they were literally rubbing elbows.

It was an uncomfortable discovery that she smelled like a garden of flowers, and in a mysterious fashion decipherable to women, or woman, the world over, for surely there was only one woman—yes, they were all sisters under the skin, where men were mostly rivals, all of it written on the outside and sitting there like a big chip on the shoulder.

But it seemed that she had nipped out to the lavatory and slipped into a dress, a dress that could only have cost some money, real money. Had she run out and bought that yesterday? He didn’t care to dwell upon it.

An electric blue kimono, not a straight line upon it, but all the hems and the lines had been cut in curves. It was loose where it mattered, plunged, also where it mattered, and it clung in all the right places. Just loose enough, one could still dance in it. The shoes were revealing enough in their own way—she had one of the little bun hats, a short fringe all around the rim, and a fur stole around her shoulders. She had her working outfit, a professional working woman sort of outfit, in a shopping bag and that would be going home with her. Practical enough.

Gilles was uncomfortable in his thoughts.

Home, what the hell is that.

Home is where the heartache is.

Home is where they send the bills.

She seemed to be ignoring him, the pair of them perched, facing backwards, on the fold-down jump-seats of the big black Citroen. Cigarette smoke enfolded them in its intimate embrace as Alphonse’s skilled hands guided them though the usual evening traffic, only to pull up sooner than expected in front of the hotel. Flunkies in top hats and tailed coats stepped forward smartly to open the door and hold it against the wind. Yes. Let’s all clamber out now.

She looked over unexpectedly, and the liquid-clear eyes were something else.

“Don’t worry, this will all be over soon enough.” A good quote, from four out of five dentists.

He nodded, reassuringly, dry in the throat all of a sudden.

Margot laughed and looked away, Alphonse’s quick glance in the mirror was appreciative. Roger’s companion looked over, right in the eyes, and then looked away. Something lurched in his guts, and then a quizzical-looking Roger made a universal gesture—Gilles reached into a pocket and pulled out one of his interminable dark little cigars. That was what people called them.

“Thanks, Gilles. I honestly have, ah, given them up. But this seems like a special occasion…” He puffed. “My, God, but that snow is really coming down.”

The lady was wearing evening gloves, in some kind of revelation as he thought about wedding rings and things like that.

He still wore his, habit as much as anything else, a kind of shield perhaps…

Gilles...???

Merde. Poor old Maintenon hadn’t had a moment to think all the damned day long, what with three new cases, a conference with Langeron, and a few other things besides. More wind, more gusts, more darkening skies…same old fucking shit, right, only there was this one complication. He hadn’t gotten a nap, either, small surprise that was.

Think of it as a party, Maintenon—

Argh.

As for poor old Gilles, he’d taken a late-day shave in the men’s room, changed his shirt, brushed the old teeth with a wet toothbrush but nothing else. The shoes looked well enough for a cop’s shoes, and hopefully, they could remain in the background and just observe. Show the flag and go home early, God willing…he could have shaved again, and it wouldn’t have made all that much difference—whiskers seem to speed up or something, getting faster with age or something. He could have shaved in the car, just outside the front door and it still wouldn’t have made any difference at all.

Who in the fucking hell cared what he looked like anymore…it was damned cold out there.

Sure.

He just wasn’t built for parties anymore.

***

There was a reception, with clumps of folks standing around with glasses in their hands, waiters with trays of canapés, and serving folks bearing bottles of bubbly wine, white or pink or whatever.

Having gotten rid of the coats and hats, there was only one thing for it, but to head on in and mingle.

Roger and the wife, (he was pretty sure by now), moved off in one direction and Gilles and Margot split, his first instinct being the fireplace and a grouping of chairs and settees, and her for the bar. Long, narrow, the room was a couple of hundred feet long, more a large hallway than anything else, with big doors on both ends, and the sort of formal entrance from the outdoors. That was on the west side, as he reckoned, trying to orient himself.

She turned and looked, and he gave her a nod and a thumbs-up.

There was a chair if he wanted it, but he stood, back to the fire and idly looking around the room. There were at least thirty or forty people, not two or three hundred…not yet, anyways. There was still a half an hour to go. A few more people came in…

Nervous laughter, titillating; up and around from one small group, and shortly after, a real belly-laugh from a group of mostly males…some of those guys had what looked like whiskey in their glasses, and that was a good thing to know too.

So far, no one seemed to have taken any notice of him, or them, or all of them really.

Margot returned, bearing wine glasses.

“Ah, thank you.” This one was very red, very grapey, if that was indeed a word, and just the perfect balance of dryness had been struck.

When he got a minute, he’d take a quick peek at a label and maybe write that one down.

Margot sipped, nodded as if reading his thoughts.

“Hmn. This might not be so bad after all.”

“Huh.”

Merde—she’d removed her wedding ring, but there was a discolouring, an indentation of the skin due to long occupation by aforesaid ring. Sometimes, there was nothing but bad compromises, all around.

As for her—

She grinned, looking around, where animated conversations were taking place, all well-dressed people and no sign of Sherlock impersonators.

“…so this is a bunch of mystery writers.”

He nodded, spluttering in the midst of a swallow.

She thought, studying them perhaps just a bit more carefully…

They seemed rational enough at first glance. Judging by the clothes, the shoes and the hair, there seemed to be money in it. Someone here was going to win an award, after all. These were the successful ones, she realized. The one percent or less, in other words. The ones-in-a-million. They could afford the price of admission.

There were a couple of big doors wide open on the interior side, and on the other side of that, a banquet hall with dozens of round tables, chairs, with a crisp white linen, floral arrangements, place settings for what looked like a few hundred at least. Was it silver, or more likely, silver plate. Who cared. One had to admit, it looked all right.

People were still arriving at both ends, some from inside the hotel, obviously, and some from the street as another blast of cold wind made its presence felt halfway into the room.

“Well, I don’t know about you.” He indicated a chair.

“I think you might be right about that.” Margot was a sensible woman, it had been a long day and that chair looked very nice right about how.

***

Nom de Dieu...

The head table was all reserved, as one might expect and they didn’t want to be there anyways. Everything else was first come, first served. A certain type of person, a certain kind of group, naturally gravitated to the front of the room. Some groups filled a table or two, and they sort of clumped together, all very chummy, noises predictable. Then there were the ones, the twos and the threes, looking at a bit of social awkwardness as they tried to decide whether to sit here, or there, or perhaps somewhere else might be better. Gilles and Margot had grabbed a couple of slots, about halfway up the room. There was already another couple there, and another couple, not caring too much either way, decided this was about as good as anything…there was always room for one bore, as the gentleman said.

Gilles chuckled dutifully as bright blue eyes regarded them all.

The male looked up, waved, and two women, perhaps single but at least acquainted, accepted the idea and the gentleman held their chairs. These people at least all seemed to know each other, authors or their fans. They’d seen each other already, at events, panels or just around the hotel. A full table, and there were still an empty few in the corners and the back of the room, which might fill out as time went on and the fashionably-late straggled in.

Gilles was gratified to see waiters burst forth from the kitchen doors on the end. Carts and trolleys and platters and in the meantime there were hot buns, butter and getting to know one another.

***

END