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| Emanuelle, seven months pregnant and a newlywed... |
Louis Shalako
Seven
months pregnant, still very much the newlywed, Emanuelle was having a hard time
coming to terms with being the wife of a police officer. Normal routine was all
right, but this one was different. He’d be gone for a few days at the very
least. Maybe as much as a week, although he had downplayed that part.
She’d
taken some convincing. It was almost impossible to explain. It was only when
he’d literally broken down into tears that she understood. She had held him in
her arms as he sobbed…still, not quite understanding, but then who would. Even
now, he could see the difference between the objective and the subjective, the
trouble was, that he just didn’t care.
This
one was important to Hubert, and in that sense it had been educational for the
both of them—but there were times when the job, or honour, the duty, or
something very much like it, came first. It was personal loyalty to Gilles and
perhaps a few things he stood for as well. She would just have to work it out,
and so would he. They would work it out together, and he told her all that.
They had their whole lives ahead of them.
One
way or another, he was going, and that was that, although he was smart enough
not to put it in exactly those terms…
She’d
only met Maintenon once, for about three minutes, when he’d attended the
wedding, something else she hadn’t truly understood the significance of…at
least not at the time.
And—
With
a big whack of cash, an envelope literally stuffed with bills, with tickets
waiting for them at the station, Hubert and LeBeaux had flashed their badges,
stated their names, gotten their tickets, and hustled their luggage onto the
all-nighter heading down south.
The
Paris Metro was famous, the Orient Express, Paris to Istanbul, with its lavish
décor, plush seats and private compartments, and a world-class dining car,
deservedly so. The reality, certainly on the unglamorous southern routes was
something just a little bit different. Two and a half days, with overnight
stops in cities big and small along the way, it all seemed like such a waste of
time, even to Hubert. It had been his idea, after all, and regrets were
useless. It was only now, that he realized what he had been asking for. It was
a marvel that he had gotten it—
Really.
He could only hope to make something out of it, and yet that seemed pretty
unlikely too.
It
was a good thing they were going south, the northbound trains probably stopped
at every station, picking up hundreds of cans of fresh, raw milk for processing
as they went along. It was only later when they found out that this worked both
ways, north and southbound. All those cities and all those towns after all, all
of them thirsty and hungry for milk, cream and cheese…butter and eggs.
Perhaps
that was being unkind, as he nodded at LeBeaux across from him and glancing
around at the bored, the weary, and the downright sleeping passengers lining
the rows of seats. He wasn’t quite ready for that yet.
“They
say railroad coffee is the best in the country.”
“It
had better be—” The smile belied the words. “As they say. An army marches on
its stomach, after all.”
No,
LeBeaux wasn’t exactly stupid, having a charm all his own and this after a very
short time. Quick on the uptake, he’d accepted the assignment (which was purely
voluntary), without a lot of bitching or whining, no excuses, no reservations,
and the fact that he hadn’t had time to get all that close to Gilles, would
give him a certain perspective.
Well,
the luggage was locked up in the baggage car, and the briefcase could go along
with them to the dining car.
“They
might have sandwiches and things like that.”
Hubert
nodded and grabbed his hat.
“I’m
game if you are.”
***
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| Tired of all the mourners. |
Andre
was getting tired of all the well-wishers, all the mourners as he was beginning
to think of them, all the folks from all over the building, from all over town,
really, stopping in and offering condolences. Thankfully, it had begun to peter
out, but it still wasn’t completely over either, apparently.
It
was disruptive, it was irritating, no matter how well meant, and too many of
their sudden influx of visitors had some terrible urge, to unburden themselves.
To reminisce in maudlin tones, about Gilles, intersecting with their own
personal stories, and in some cases, to merely indulge in long sessions of what
could only be described as gossip—old, tired gossip that somehow gone off on a
tangent, and didn’t even involve Gilles. More than anything they wanted to
talk. It rubbed the meat raw, rubbed salt into an open wound, and other
metaphors, if that was the right word, or some other one that he couldn’t think
of right away.
So,
when a uniformed gendarme stuck his head into the room a little diffidently,
casting his glance around the otherwise empty room, and finally settling up on
Andre, he bit back a growl, settling for a dark but quiet scowl which was
rapidly becoming habitual…
“Yes?”
The
officer entered the room, committed now and perhaps regretting it—
“Yes.
Sir. Ah, it’s just that we have something, hopefully, on Maintenon’s deep
freezer case.”
“Ah.”
More receptive now, Andre reached for the proffered report.
Sitting
up, he opened the file but remained engaged for the moment.
“Ah,
yes, sir. I am in the northwestern part of the city.” He mentioned the name of
the Arrondissement, which was on the file anyways. “We had a report of an
abandoned vehicle and I was on the call. Sure enough, a dark blue delivery van,
common enough, and yes, there were signs on the side. It had rained, and the
signs were…not in good shape, and it occurred to me that they were just thin
pasteboard sheets, with hand-painted lettering on them, glued or pasted on to
disguise the real origin of the vehicle…”
“Go
on.” Hmn.
“Ah,
yes. Ah, we recovered the vehicle and took it to the technical branch. They
have carefully soaked off the labels, with sponges and hot water, basically,
and now we have the real name of the company…who have, in fact, put in a
complaint regarding the theft of the vehicle. It’s a little village about fifty
kilometres east of the city limits—which explains why we didn’t hear about it
initially.”
Andre
nodded. The time, the date, the names, the location were all right there for
him.
“Understood.”
The report would have been made to the local constabulary, and yet the Paris
papers were popular enough all over the country…homicide bulletins were
nation-wide.
Someone
had put two and two together and sent their own bulletin right back.
“Understand,
ah, Detective Levain, that the area is a bit of an industrial wasteland, with
vacant lots and patches of scrubby forest, railroad tracks, small farms,
crossroads with the beginnings—or, or, the endings, of a village, some private
estates which tend to be walled and gated. The vehicle was driven off of the
road, down a farm laneway and stuffed, nose-first, into the bushes, just before
it opened up into a bean-field.” They’d left the key in the ignition, and the
vehicle was essentially undamaged. “It might have been there for quite a few
days, near as anyone can make out.” Rain showers and road dust left their own
signs, and that was for sure.
As
for fingerprints, there were all kinds of them, and the techs were working on
that, but odds were the basic bits, the door handles, the steering wheel, had
been wiped, or the thieves had simply worn gloves throughout that part of the
operation.
“And
what are the people saying about the vehicle?”
“Stolen
from their own yard, over the weekend. They do carpets and flooring, and they
say there were some tools and stuff inside. That must have been dumped
somewhere. So, they had the machine for a few days before it turned up at
Maintenon’s door. The theft seems pretty professional in that sense.” Going on,
he explained that the fake signs had been a buffy, off-white colour, big chunks
of card-stock, with the lettering in black and gold, and the name, Montgolfier Brothers on the side was
clearly bogus but they were still digging into that…with all the resources
available.
The
Montgolfier brothers had built the first hot-air balloon, just to be clear…that
might have some significance.
As
for himself, he didn’t see much in it, but one never knew.
“So,
we have the initial theft, the dumping of the tools, the actual job, and the
housekeeper is fairly firm on the number—four males. Oh, driving across town in
mid to late afternoon, Friday night traffic, and then dumping the vehicle. One
must assume a pick-up, a second vehicle already in place, or someone there with
another vehicle to bring them home so to speak. That isn’t to say that the
other three males couldn’t have been dropped off along the way.” They could
always throw an old bicycle in the back end, and take off that way…one or two
perps, on bicycles maybe.
So,
they were looking for anything up to five individuals, perhaps more.
One
or two people could simply step out at a red light, for example, slam the
passenger door and disappear into the throng. It happened all the time, and no
one would remark upon it. If two was company, and if three was a crowd, five
people might just imply some kind of gang involvement—
“That
freezer could have come from anywhere in France, at the very least.”
His
thinking seemed fairly thorough, noted Levain, mentally filing all that away.
Andre
nodded.
“Thank
you.” He nodded, again. “Well, it’s a lead, anyways.”
“Ah,
yes, sir. Everything we have is in the file. Including photos of the fake
signs. Ah—”
“Yes?”
“Is
it true that we still don’t have any identification on the bodies?”
Andre
grunted.
“No—I
mean yes. Ah, hell, yes; that is true. We do not have identification on the
bodies…” Yet there was much food for thought here. “What we do have is this.
One male, about forty, medium height, weight and build, one female,
approximately mid-twenties, blonde, slim but fairly well-built, and one male,
early thirties, of a foreign race, not exactly black but not exactly white
either. Neither skinny nor fat. Nothing really outstanding there. Uh. Do you
have any ideas on that one, constable?”
The
man had clearly been reading the bulletins.
“Er,
no. No, sir.” The implication was there, and if the man really did have an
idea, hopefully he would share it with them…
“What
did you say your name was?”
“Ah,
Martin Garnier. Constable first-class.”
“…and
who is your supervisor?”
“Sergeant
Roche, sir.”
“Thank
you.”
That
was on the report too, but it was good to be sure.
“Thank
you for bringing this all the way over here, Martin. We appreciate this very
much. Oh—and next time, call me Andre.” It was as much of a reward as he could
give.
“Ah,
yes, sir.” The constable straightened up, gave him a proper salute, and turned
for the door.
Andre’s
eyes dropped to the file.
Perhaps
there was hope here after all—
END
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