Dead Reckoning, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Chapter Seven. Louis Shalako.

Single, and alone.

Louis Shalako

Having missed it the first couple of times and then turning around, and looking again, consulting with the map and between themselves, this place pretty much had to be it.

They peered at the map. It was just over the bridge, with a farmhouse to the left and right. They stood at a farm gate, set in a low stone wall along the road. The gate led into a pasture, with the land rising from front to back, with forest and brush along both sides and at the end, and what appeared to be a goat-path leading from the gate, just as they had said back in the village. A shoulder of the mountain loomed over them to the right, fading off into the distance, and the valley was all laid out below them just over the shoulder. As for the river, there it was, foaming and leaping in an impressive set of rapids when seen from the bridge above.

Hmn.

The car was tucked in, just enough out of the way of any traffic, or if the farmer suddenly needed to get in there. There were no cattle—what they might have done if there was a bull or something in there, and goats and sheep, with those big horns, could be aggressive enough…well, it was a very good question.

They had their rods and their little back-packs. Stout but cheap hiking boots on their feet, and rugged plaid bush jackets, all of which were on the expense account—something else Hubert had barely considered, while they were still safe and sane back in Paris. They were wearing tuques, in his own case something he hadn’t done since a boy. He wasn’t so sure about LeBeaux. To be sure, this was no place for leather soled shoes and conservative business suits…

Hubert shrugged.

“Well, it’s now or never.”

It might not be that bad. They’d had the foresight to have one of the local pubs put up a couple of ham and cheese sandwiches for them. These would keep well enough for an hour or two, or about as long as they seemed likely to last. He’d bought a bottle of brandy the evening before. They had fresh water in their military-surplus canteens, and a roll of toilet paper. As it was, the sun was shining, the dew glittered on the grass, and the thin morning mist was burning off.

The birds were very vocal and a light breeze stirred the leaves on the trees.

It was like the very first dawn, or so he thought.

There was no time like the present.

“Well, isn’t that cute.” He stood there, bemused.

“It’s called a stile.” The pair clambered up and over, with Hubert clearly the life-long, big-city boy and LeBeaux with perhaps a little more experience in such things. “That way you can get through without opening the gate…and losing all the cows. Or sheep, or whatever.”

“Or chickens.”

“Er, yes. Or chickens.” One solitary but very curious hen was suddenly hanging around LeBeaux’s ankles and he shooed it gently away, hoping the damned thing wouldn’t follow them further.

Just to make them look stupid, the thing poked a head through and then stepped out through the bars of the gate and out onto the road. It pecked at invisible things in the gravel by the roadside. It wasn’t their problem anyways.

They were almost undoubtedly being watched from the nearest windows, both houses, both sides of the road. He supposed they had the right—keeping an eye out for chicken thieves, for example, or possibly sheep-molesters.

Such trails were often a traditional right of way, going back to a time before the land was enclosed and went into private ownership. A remnant of the commons. Cave-men had probably used this trail. Hubert nodded, not really caring all that much about the history lesson. He was only half listening.

He was also only half-looking where he was going.

“Jesus, Christ.” Hubert, slipping on a muddy rock, smooth, rounded and sticking up in just exactly the wrong place, almost went down. “Argh. Fuck.”

Arms flailing, he caught himself, grateful that he hadn’t pulled a muscle or something…or maybe he had.

This was no time to get a groin pull.

There was a long pause, pregnant with meaning.

“All right, all right, let’s go. This was your idea, after all.”

Hubert plodded along behind him, watching his footing now, not saying much, letting LeBeaux take the lead, and perhaps regaining some kind of mental equilibrium. LeBeaux was entirely correct, in that this had all been his idea—fuck. It was coming back to haunt him now, wasn’t it.

“So, we follow the path, up and over the hill…the woods are on our right, just like the man said…and the map. Down the hill, and right there at the bottom…ah, here we are: a fucking trail to the right. Now, how hard was that.”

“Ah. I have a funny feeling that was the easy part.” While the main path continued along, up the slope of the very next hill, the woods now loomed tall and dark on their right, and with the side-trail heavily-trod with a thousand foot-prints going both ways in obvious proof.

This was clearly a popular spot, and yet there didn’t seem to be too many people about…

Little Red Riding Hood.

“Allo.”

Turning back, they stopped, staring open-mouthed. She was coming down from the main trail before them, backlit by the sunbeams, coming out of the sloping shadows of the forest, and into the light.

“What the—”

Hubert got a short, sharp elbow in the ribs.

It was a girl. She had a wicker basket in the crook of her left arm, with the contents covered by a cheerful red and white checkered cloth. Some greenery peeking out spoke of herbs, or salad-greens, perhaps radishes or beets or some other root vegetable.

She had a nice silhouette, a line Hubert promised himself that he would remember.

Possibly even for a very long time.

She was a vision of loveliness…

LeBeaux stood there, transfixed.

“Allo.” She repeated it, and Éliott nodded dumbly as Hubert stood looking on, catching up a little on the breathing and in some amusement.

Her smile was a revelation.

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle.” Hubert nodded politely, stepping back as the path was narrow, clotted with mud and hemmed in by brush and long grass. “It’s a lovely day.”

“Oui, Monsieur. C’est toujours comme ça après la pluie.” It’s always like this after the rain, and the local accent was charming indeed.

Hubert whipped off his cap and bowed low as she sort of arrived…

“Enchanté, ma petit.”

She half-giggled and half-snorted, but didn’t seem too offended by it. All of a sudden, Hubert was back in his element, and now it was LeBeaux’s turn to be nonplussed, but when has anyone ever truly been plussed? It just didn’t make any sense.

She had a bonnet, tied on under the chin, in a vain attempt to restrain the glory of thick, glossy brown hair, which it rather failed to do. Her eyes were blue and the whites were very clear. She wore a sort of mid-length skirt, and a short cape-like thing in red, and ankle-length lace-up boots and some kind of fairly long but rather loose brown socks under there. It was amazing what a little bit of skin could do for a man, but those knees were all right. Somehow, perhaps by a kind of osmosis, or possibly he was just visualizing the results of one of those newfangled X-rays, but somehow, one knew that under there was a remarkable body…she had nice bone structure, and any man could see that much.

Suddenly shy under all this examination, she passed them by, and headed on down the track.

“All right, boy. You’ve seen enough.” And so have I.

“Oh, no, I haven’t—” Said LeBeaux. “Not by a long shot.”

“It is, a long shot.”

Hubert grabbed him by the arm and pulled him away from his reverie, where no doubt visions of sugar-plum fairies danced in his head. Some girl in white, dancing Swan Lake…

It would be like, it would be like…butterflies walking on his balls, as his old man used to say, and Hubert grinned at the thoughts.

“You know who that was?”

“No, who was that?”

"You know who that is, don't you."

“That, unless I miss my guess, was Little Red Riding Hood. Either that, or one of the local peasant girls.” Hubert let out a snort. “And you, now, you’re the Big, Bad Wolf—just promise me you won’t dress up as an old woman and hide in the bed, okay.”

“You just don’t understand.”

Oh, I think I do—but he didn’t say it. It was self-evident.

“Come on, let’s find this God-damned river.”

Yes, poor old LeBeaux had it real bad all of a sudden.

As for Hubert, he was a happily-married man and that’s all there was to it and he hadn’t had to remind himself of that fact for quite some time.

This might be one of those times.

 

END

 

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Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

 

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Dead Reckoning, Chapter Six. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

Room for two clowns and Elmer the Safety Elephant.

Louis Shalako

Hubert had just hung up the phone, and LeBeaux had just come out of the shower, with steam in the air and in a ratty old housecoat. He was barefoot and with the hair all freshly slicked-back, which gave the thing a whole new perspective, for some reason. Sharing a bedroom, and the bathroom, it was like having a brother, all of a sudden. You learn something new every day, but Hubert was an only child. It was an interesting insight.

He’d been spared this much, at least while growing up.

“Ah.” Hubert had just been on the line with their local police detachment here in Bagneres de Luchon. “We have an appointment, in order to pay our respects, at four p.m. sharp. I reckon that’s about the time the chief goes home, four-thirty, five o’clock or so. It’s his clock around here and I reckon we’ve got about ten, fifteen minutes of his time. I’ve actually been speaking to a Sergeant Dampier, who seems all right. He has accepted our purpose here, ah, at face value.”

At least for the time being—

Insofar as that went.

Courtesy calls were de rigeur, it was in the manual and everything. There might even be good reasons for it. A kind of bureaucratic politics at work, just for one example; and trying not to step on too many official toes for another.

Having arrived shortly before noon, after locating their bags and finding a taxi, finding a meal and a room, specifically one with two beds, its own bath, and a telephone, (and fuck the cost), they had a few hours to kill.

“So. Where would we go to pick up some fishing gear.”

Hubert’s mouth opened. He shut it again.

LeBeaux had an idea, which was not always a bad thing.

“Why don’t we have a look in the phone book. In a town of this size, there can’t be too many places.”

He opened up his suitcase and pulled out a fresh notepad. He had a pen clipped just so, in the inside breast pocket.

“I think we should rent a car. It doesn’t have to be much, it just has to get us around for a couple of days. Three, at the most.” It was either that or take a cab everywhere, and having it sit out front with the meter running at all times—and with the driver’s ears flapping like crazy.

“That seems fair enough.”

LeBeaux was looking over a colourful printed pamphlet, a three-fold it was called.

It appeared to be a menu from a local restaurant.

 

"...how do I feel about fried chicken..."

“So. How do you feel about fried chicken, uh, poulet brut, avec frites en julienne,

 et une salade du jardin et la soupe du jour?”

They could go out, or phone in an order.

In the meantime, it was Hubert’s turn for a nice, hot shower.

***

The chief’s name was Yves-Francois Gilbert, and he seemed friendly enough. Naturally, he knew all about the famous Maintenon, honoured son of this remote little community in the Pyrenees. A small, slight man in an impeccable uniform, he had the grizzled side-whiskers that were only to be expected in a gentleman of his age, with a five-o’clock shadow in pepper and salt tones, the mustache tending to white rather than grey.

The chin was small and round and the ears were big and pink.

The eyes were an intense blue and probably didn’t miss too much.

“So, you want to see the place where Gilles disappeared. Huh. Well, it’s a free country.”

“Er, yes, sir. But also, due to certain circumstances back in Paris, we would also like to absolutely rule out any suspicion of foul play. We understand the body has not been recovered yet?” Hubert was doing the talking for the moment. “We’re not criticizing, we’re just kind of asking.”

“Ah, no.” The chief nodded, thinking it through. “That freezer thing? Yes, that one does seem very strange.”

So, he knew about that then.

He glanced at the clock—

Thereby helping Hubert to win a small bet with LeBeaux. In a small place like this, Inspector Gilbert could reasonably expect to be home for dinner, most days at least. Being chief was a day job. It was a Tuesday. The kids were still in school, with a week or two still to go. The crops were planted and the tourists were still thin on the ground. Routine would rule supreme. The two of them were anything but an emergency. An unwelcome distraction, perhaps. A pain in the ass, more than likely—

A bit of a joke, possibly…

“We’re hoping to rent a car. We bought a map, and the gentleman at the general store has given us directions. We understand it is private property up there. We have the phone book, but we were wondering if you could help us out with a list of names. People who may have known, or seen, or interacted with Gilles.” More than just what was in the original incident report, which really only had about three or four names, Gilles, his nephew, the original attending officer, and his sergeant. There were no other witnesses.

Gilbert inclined his head.

“Yes, of course, I will put somebody on that right away. I take it you’re staying overnight?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, come around tomorrow and Dampier will have something for you.” Again, that glance at the clock. “Honestly, I ran into Gilles downtown one morning, but we basically just talked about the weather. Said hello, shook hands, and went on our way—”

Hopefully, someone would have a little bit more than that, but it seemed unlikely.

Taking his cue, Hubert rose and they indulged in another handshake.

“Thank you, sir.” And now, they were off—for a good meal, a beer or two, and perhaps to take in a little of the town while they had an off moment. “It’s been an honour meeting you.”

“Hey. I’ve just had an idea.”

The pair turned back as the chief rummaged in a desk drawer, coming up with small ring with a couple of keys on it.

“Take the limo.”

There might have been a bit of a wry humour in it. The limo turned out to be a primitive little yellow bug of a vehicle that could never have seen serious police use.

…and.

They stood in the parking lot looking down at it. It would be cheaper than taking a taxi everywhere they went. Other than that, there wasn’t much to be said.

“…the limo, eh…”

“Holy. That must be for when the circus is in town—” LeBeaux had a point. “What the hell is it.”

LeBeaux: always thinking of his stomach.

It was, in point of fact, the Citroen 11, with front wheel drive, skinny tires, a pissy little engine, not even two litres, and one had to wonder just how that would be, with any kind of a load aboard, going up steep hills in icy conditions, rain or snow or sleet. The only positive attribute would be the cabriolet top. It would make it easier to jump out and push the thing on the up-hill grades. He had no doubt of its ability to get back down again, assuming it had brakes and everything. Hopefully.

“Nice. We can put the top down and enjoy the sunshine…” Hubert was more amused than anything. “Honestly, we should have taken a rental. They’ll see us coming for miles away in this fucking thing—”

“I’ll bet the schoolkids just love it.”

That had to be it—some senior officer,

having the rank and nearing retirement,

going around to all the schools and educating the children on the hazards of playing in traffic,

the dangers of flying kites around power lines, 

the importance of staying away from railroad tracks,

and of course, cold, fast-flowing water…Elmer the Safety Elephant, tusks and all. 

The back seat would be just big enough to squeeze it in.

...just one of our readers here at Long Cool One Books...

“Ah. The community safety officer. Of course.” Pretty much every detachment of any size had one. “I wonder how many clowns will fit in here.”

There will be room enough for the two of us, but Hubert bit back on that one as it hit a little too close to home.

“I don’t know about that, but we could go over to the fire hall and see if we can borrow their Dalmatian…” There was something about the tone.

LeBeaux gave him a strange look, running out of words all of a sudden. There was, after all, a serious reason for their being here today.

Huh.

There was nothing for it, but to climb in and see if the blasted thing would start.

It did, and a thin blue cloud appeared in the rear-view mirrors. Hopefully that would clear up a little, as it was still on the choke.

“God help us now.”

 There was a long, grinding noise. No synchro on first gear. He double-clutched it. Putting it in gear, LeBeaux eased out the clutch and then they were moving.

“Where to, mon ami?”

“Let’s try the Old Pines Restaurant. I’ve been thinking of that fried chicken ever since we got here.”

***

The next day had dawned, bright and clear if a little chilly first thing.

After learning the machine and the map a little, LeBeaux took them out of town. There was a fork in the road, and he took the right, which clearly led up…and then around again to the right, in a hairpin turn. The slope was relatively gentle, and he wasn’t trying to go fast. There also wasn’t much sense in using top gear, and the motor had its own distinctive burbling note.

The next turn was a hard, very hard left. The grade was steeper now. The actual corner was the worst, like a short piece of a broken corkscrew. You could only go so fast, and of course, of course he was in the wrong gear. The speed dropped off alarmingly, she simply didn’t have the torque, and when he floored it, the engine began to ping, also rather alarmingly.

Hastily, he dropped from third into second and it seemed a little better. He would only try first gear as a last resort as getting it into first had been something of a bitch so far.

All of this while trying to keep it on a narrow ribbon of semi-pavement, riddled with patches on patches, more recent pot-holes and all crumbling away at the edges.

“Whoa. Whoa.”

“I see it.” They were coming up on a cart piled high with boxes of produce and wooden cages with what looked like live chickens in them.

“Going to market.”

“Yeah.” There was another tight turn coming up and LeBeaux geared down yet again. “Okay. What’s next.”

It was only a few kilometres out of town, but it had occurred to Hubert that time, speed and distance equations meant something just a little bit different in this part of the world. Also, Hubert was finding that with the top down, getting any kind of a look at the map was difficult, opened up and then folded down into quarters as it was.

“Fuck, slow down.”

LeBeaux laughed.

“Relax, buddy. We got all day.”

“I think that was my point.” Hubert was politely, or perhaps pointedly, ignored.

A lorry appeared in the lane up ahead, again coming down, towards them, and it became apparent just how narrow this badly-paved stretch actually was. Considering the vehicle, possibly loaded, and the slope, LeBeaux decided the truck had the right of way.

LeBeaux pulled her in tight to the rock face to their right and the other machine barely scraped past, the driver giving a cheerful nod of acknowledgement. Holding it with the brake, he crunch-crunched it into first, slipped the clutch, rolling back now on the slope, and then he let it out with a bang. The vehicle began juddering near a stall at low revs, somehow the engine overcame its own internal inertia and then they were shooting gravel from the right front tire...rubber squawked and then they were on the road again.

“Would you like me to drive for a while?” It was just a thought—

“No.”

 

END

 

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 Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Thank you for reading.

 

Dead Reckoning, Chapter Five, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

What the hell...

Louis Shalako

After the usual morning huddle, with the usual calls, phones ringing, and everyone talking all at once, the other detectives had scattered to the four winds. With nothing really pressing on his plate, and with more routine typing lined up than anything else, Archambault found himself in sole possession of the room. This probably wouldn’t last for long and he’d better get onto it…

His notebook was full of stuff and he always tried to get it down while the memories could still augment bare bits of sentences and his own unique short-form. Too many cases, too little time, and a new problem-child every day, and that’s how it usually was.

He was just getting down to it, with a fresh sheet in the machine, a fresh cup of coffee beside his elbow and a pack of cigarettes open there as well. He’d just dumped the ashtray as a precautionary measure. He looked up in some irritation when the door opened and a uniformed officer stuck his head in. In shirt-sleeves and hatless, he was one of their administrative wonders, in the sense that he worked the front desk, and the big situation room behind it. He knew all about radio and telephone communications protocols, and the importance of making a notation about every little thing, and he never left the building during working hours. With enough seniority to hang onto the duty, he was still a constable, and probably useful enough in his own way—flat in the feet, pasty in the face, paunchy in the belly, bald as a cue-ball, but still useful.

“Huh. Henri?”

“Sorry, sir. It’s just that there’s a young man here asking to speak to someone. Maintenon’s nephew. His name is Guillaume Maintenon and I thought you’d probably…”

“Yes. Absolutely.” His jaw was hanging so he pulled it up again—

The young man must have been waiting outside the door. The constable nodded him in, and then closed the door behind.

Archambault stood.

Young Maintenon was fairly tall, dressed well enough in a brown suit, and about thirty-five years old. Stolidly middle-class, whereas he’d always had the impression that the Maintenons were peasant farmers. Young people were getting all sorts of education these days, and who could blame them. Once they’d seen the lights of gay Paree, there was no more keeping them down on the farm. There were certain signs, but the collar of the shirt seemed crisp and clean and he wore a wristwatch and a tie-clip. Clean-shaven, hair neatly trimmed. Very neatly, in fact. Some kind of cologne. Shiny black shoes. There was some suggestion of a family resemblance, if one accepted the idea of archetypes. It wasn’t the facial features so much, as it was the skin tones, bone structure and hair and eye colour. Okay, he was fairly convinced…a young Maintenon, tall and kind of skinny, just as Maintenon himself might have been, once upon a time. Not exactly a carbon-copy—the fellow was definitely a few centimetres taller than Gilles.

It was a social phenomenon, in that the human race was getting taller.

“Please, come in. Sit down. Can I get you a cup of coffee?” This was distinctly a surprise, and yet the people downstairs would have checked the identification if nothing else. “Ah, so. What brings you here, young man?”

It was awkward enough, but he beckoned at a convenient chair and acted as if the fellow wanted coffee. He’d probably take it. Back half turned, he was aware of the young man settling in and taking a good look around the room…

“Here you go.” He set the cup down on a corner of the desk and took his own seat again.

“Cigarette?’

“Ah, non. No thanks.”

Archambault snapped one of his own into life and blew out the match. He waved it around, then dropped it in the ash tray…

He nodded across on an angle to the left.

“That was his desk, right over there in the corner.” There was a bustle and cooing from the doves and pigeons outside of the open windows high up on the wall in a kind of counterpoint and it was all very interesting…

Craning a bit, colouring a bit, the young man had a good look. The face came back and caught his eye again.

“I guess it goes without saying that the family has our deepest condolences, ah, officially and also as friends and colleagues. We had nothing but love and respect for your uncle Gilles. So, uh, what’s up.”

It was a technique, and it had worked well enough, and often enough, with perps, witnesses, and victims. Set them at their ease insofar as it was possible, to be open, non-judgemental, and to let nature take its course. The human being, just loved to talk. It was what set them apart from the animals, in his opinion. Above all, it was a kind of calm, inner voice, one that had served him well enough over the years.

“Yes, well.” Guillaume had a package in his lap, all brown paper and twine.

Archambault hadn’t quite noticed that before.

Guillaume hesitated, and then opened it up.

“This is Uncle Gilles’ hat. Here is his gun. An MAB, Model D, 7.65 millimetre, one clip, no loose rounds or other accessories. One wonders why he even had it with him, pure habit I suppose…” Guillaume trailed off.

Archambault’s mouth opened and then closed.

The young man explained.

“I suppose it’s the property of the next of kin, but the gun at least, should be properly accounted-for. There isn’t much else.”

Archambault nodded as if he understood.

“I mean, ah, the fishing equipment, the rods and the reels, the hip-waders and stuff, that was mine anyways, and the weapon was probably issued by this department. I’ve unloaded it and there is no round in the chamber, incidentally.” He carefully placed his exhibits on the corner of Archambault’s desk. “One has to wonder why he was carrying it, and how it happened to be there…sort of on the log, where he must have sat down for a moment…”

Gilles had left a razor, clothing, and some other things at the house, the police probably weren’t too interested in that.

“Oh, really.” This detail hadn’t been in any of the written reports, also, he wondered why the police down there hadn’t sort of seized the weapon just on general principles.

Of course, they would be going on the assumption…the assumption of accidental death, with no suggestion of foul play.

“The so-called search parties have been called off. I suppose I just wanted to see where he worked, you know? I suppose I just wanted to talk to somebody.”

He felt, somehow, responsible.

“Of course, and naturally, I understand. You know, somebody must be Gilles’ heir, someone must be the executor of any estate he might leave behind. I believe they, I mean him and Ann, owned the flat and things like that. I would imagine he had a bank account, some savings or investments, stocks and bonds, things like that.”

The young man flushed a bit on hearing that.

“That’s not what this is about.”

He hesitated.

“Actually, I am an alternate executor. The primary executor is my father Maurice, who still holds down the family, er, homestead. My uncle Alexandre, the oldest of the boys, is in an old-age home. His mind still seems pretty good, last time I visited, but he’s not too mobile, and I suppose Uncle Gilles had to name somebody.” As for the aunts, three of them, they were scattered about the immediate area, but some miles out of the town, more of a big, straggling village as he put it. “There are aunts and uncles all over the place.”

There were nieces and nephews, cousins, and all of their progeny in some sense, four or five generations of them, and some of them had scattered, but they were mostly still down home as he called it.

The will had been made ten or so years previously, sometime after the decease of his Aunt Ann.

His sister Monique, five or so years older, was the co-executor. The regular form was to have at least two executors, perhaps one or two alternates. They both knew he was here, and more or less approved of the intention.

“Okay. So. What is all this about?”

“Well, for one thing, I’m just not buying it.”

Archambault sat up a bit on hearing that. Now this, was getting interesting.

“They’ll find the body, it’s only a matter of time. Look, maybe it’s stuck in a crevice or something. But surely, sooner or later, it has to turn up.” A funeral without a body didn’t seem all that likely, it took seven years or something like that to declare someone legally dead…Archambault didn’t want to go into all of that right now.

"Fuck," and this from a school teacher...

Guillaume shook his head.

“Fuck.”

It was all he said, and that, coming from a school-teacher.

***

As much as anything, police work was about listening.

“When I was very young, I seriously considered becoming a detective. Some of that was probably the influence of my uncle, and I still have a couple of old scrapbooks with photos and clippings from the newspapers. Anything about him, really. For quite a few years, he really was my hero. I blush to think that I actually got him to autograph it one time. Holy crap, was I young. Uncle Gilles had a lot more hair, and long sideburns back then. It was all black hair. Yet it was still the same person, I guess, ah, there’s a picture of him up on the mantelpiece back home. I suppose I was just that age. I cut things out and stuck them in the book. But, ultimately, I became a teacher.” Guillaume taught science, mathematics, history and geography in the local ecole primaire. “That’s not to say that I don’t have my own thoughts, my own instincts.”

According to Guillaume, Maintenon had seemed fit enough, physically able enough, to take on a bit of rough country and walking on narrow goat-paths and things like that. A little out of breath, perhaps, but it was a long walk and with a fair climb along the way. The pair had separated, each seeking their own luck, as he said. After an hour or so, he’d tired of it and went looking for his Uncle Gilles.

“And?”

“And then, he was gone. Just gone—I suppose I’m having a hard time coming to terms with it.”

“How well did you know, ah, your uncle.”

“Not that well, really, mostly just boyhood memories. The last time they visited, it was like twelve or fifteen years ago. Maybe even longer than that. Shortly before she died—” It seemed getting the man out of the house and the company of old people, old memories, had been sort of his motivation for inviting Gilles to go along on their little fishing expedition. “I was barely eighteen or twenty, and maybe not paying all that much attention. One regrets such things later in life, of course…”

Hmn.

That one had the ring of truth. Archambault was lucky if his own children phoned up once or twice a month and asked how they were doing. He usually just said hello, told them he was fine, and then let the wife take over.

“What was your impression of his state of mind?” The Boss hadn’t had a vacation in years, and had kicked up at least some kind of a fuss before going.

“Ah, yes.” In his own impression, Gilles had been enjoying it—insofar as it was possible to do so when he wasn’t an avid fisherman and hadn’t done it in years.

“Considering the elevation, and the fact Uncle Gilles was a smoker, he seemed to be doing all right.” He wasn’t exactly young.

It would be a strange bed, in a strange house, with someone else’s strange sounds, the toilet flushing and a door closing in the night, and he would be on someone else’s schedule…breakfast, lunch and dinner.

He was killing the time as best he could, in other words—and doing his best to enjoy it, and not to be a burden, or even a disappointment, to the relatives.

That part seemed to make sense. There was the wrench of no routine, the journey, the relief at actually arriving somewhere else, catching up with the rest of the family, so to speak. They would have to find something to talk about after all of those years.

“He’d actually caught a couple of really nice ones, and we were looking forward to, ah…eating them later, for dinner.” Guillaume had three or four smaller fish, and it would have made for a pretty nice meal. “I have to clean them, which I’m pretty good at, or the wife just won’t cook them.”

He looked pretty miserable.

“Fuck. There was a fresh one, not real big, laying there in the dirt at the foot of this log, it was mostly dead but it still twitched when I picked it up…this is when I started wondering where he had gone. It couldn’t have been more than fifteen or twenty minutes.” He shook his head. “To leave a perfectly good fish laying in the dirt like that, it’s just a bit abnormal.”

Something struck Archambault.

“I seem to recall that Gilles’ mail is being held downtown.” He rummaged around and found a name and phone number. “Speak to a Madame Lemieux at the main postal centre downtown.”

He wrote that down for him.

He bit his lip.

“Other than that, I can let you have a key to the flat, perhaps we could have an officer go along and you could just take a walk through the place…” Maintenon, always thinking, also, a very long time ago, had made a point of leaving one in his desk drawer just in case.

“Thank you.” There wasn’t much more to be said. “I’m almost ashamed to say this—”

“Oh?”

“It’s just that it’s getting close to our tenth anniversary, and I brought the wife along.” They’d had dinner and a show the night before, and she was waiting at a little bistro around the corner, just over the bridge and a few doors to the right as he described it.

Archambault nodded, he knew the place well enough. Dorani’s. Their meat-ball sandwiches were almost legendary, at least in the world-view of your typical flic.

“Well, that’s understandable. Ah, about that key—”

“Sure.” Guillaume seemed hesitant, but it seemed the thing to do so Archambault went and got it for him. “You can drop that off later, or mail it back or whatever.”

The housekeeper would still have one in any case, and LeBref, of all people, had claimed custody of the cat, at least until other arrangements could be made.

It was the mention of the cat—but Guillaume’s eyes watered.

He had to take a minute and Archambault let him take his time.

They could always call a locksmith.

They probably would go around and have a look, or so thought Archambault. It was only human nature, and there was that hero-worship aspect. The young man was rising and Archambault couldn’t think of much else.

“It’s too bad really—a couple of our guys have gone down there, to, ah, Luchon, and you and the wife were probably on a passing train on the opposite track.”

“Oh, really.”

The pair shook hands.

“Here’s my card.” Archambault handed one over. “Give us a call if you need anything, or if you think of anything else. We really do appreciate you coming in. Ah, how long are you in town?”

“Oh. No more than a couple of days. I have seven days of compassionate leave, a little unusual, but my boss is pretty understanding. I have to teach on Monday.”

“Ah.” Archambault held the door for him....

The young man was gone, and Henri had indeed waited in the corridor to escort him out, as it was very important that strangers weren’t left unattended. Otherwise they would end up wandering all over the building, wide-eyed and curious…it had happened before.

He picked up the hat, fingered the brim, a little stained around the sweatband but not very much, and set it back down again. That was Maintenon’s hat all right…and then there was the gun, and the clip. He would have to check the serial number, but there was little reason to doubt.

It really was hard to believe he was gone.

END

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MAB Model D, 7.65 mm pistol.

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Chapter One, Scene One.

ChapterOne, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four.

Thank you for reading.