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| Hubert. |
Louis Shalako
A couple of weeks had gone by, with the workload about
the same as usual, and with Andre Levain taking over in Gilles’ place. Senior
man, he had plenty of experience and word was, he could probably go anywhere in
the force, perhaps even taking on his own department—if only he had wanted it.
Andre was happy enough where he was, and while
promotion might bring in a little more money, always important to a family man,
it was a kind of trap in that you ended up with a much bigger pile of
responsibility. A big, steaming pile, sometimes. At some point, you could be
held accountable for the mistakes of the people under you, and that was always
a consideration. You’d be dragging a briefcase full of work home every stinking
night and every stinking weekend. He’d be competing for the best and the
brightest people, going up against a bunch of other department heads, playing
office politics, and accounting for the budget and the overtime, and answering
to the more political brass-hats, whereas under Maintenon he was more or less
insulated from all of that. Maintenon could defy them, upon the proper
occasion, and somehow, make it stick. Now that,
took not just nerve but real talent, and he wasn’t too sure he had that, or if
he ever would.
There was a subdued knock at the door and he looked up
from a file he and Hubert had been going over.
“Yes, yes.”
The door opened and a somber looking Roger Langeron
entered, his mouth tight, eyes down and dark-looking, and Andre wondered if
someone had fucked up real bad. He had a couple of flimsy sheets in hand.
“People.”
Two or three others, Margot, LeBref, and the new guy,
LeBeaux, froze for a second and then all eyes swung to the Chief.
“Sir?”
Roger stood there, and uttered a long, deep sigh.
“Merde.
Well, there’s no making this easy…Maintenon is missing, presumed dead—”
What?
The silence was pressing, all eyes on him and all
mouths open as the significance of the words sank in and hit bottom.
“…Gilles and his nephew Guillaume were fishing a river
not far from the original family home, down there in Bagneres de Luchon. They say it’s very remote, with hilly country,
forest, and, ah, ah, the river runs in a gorge.” Choking up, Roger looked down
at the paper in his hands. “The body has not been recovered, and he is presumed
dead…due to the current, rocks, waterfalls, the temperature of the water…”
The amount of time that had passed, the rugged
terrain.
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There were tears in his eyes, and Margot was openly
sobbing.
“How?”
“They don’t say—they’re not sure. Apparently, Gilles
went downstream a ways, looking for a better pool or whatever…it’s a mountain
stream. He was going for some of those exquisite little brook trout. Guillaume
stayed where he was, or so it says in the report. When he finally went looking,
Gilles was gone…just gone.”
They stared at Roger, and he reached for a
handkerchief. His eyes came up, looked around and he headed morosely for the
chair—Maintenon’s chair. He landed with a firm thud, as if the knees had given
way. Roger dabbed at his eyes.
Heaving another sigh, mostly in control of himself, he
kept going.
“They say Guillaume found a few things, his fishing
rod, a creel, that’s like a wicker basket they put their fish in…that famous
chirper cap of his. The one he got when he was in England that one time.” That
hat came out about twice a year, spring and fall in a kind of ritual.
Roger had to stop for moment, perhaps blaming himself
in some ways.
“I suppose there’s more. I only got the message this
morning. I will follow up, but I thought you should be the first to know.” He’d
have to call the Minister in a few minutes.
The news would be going around like wildfire, and the
rumours, and it was better if the Minister heard about it from Roger first—
The rumours wouldn’t be too far behind the news.
There were other thoughts, a funeral, or some kind of
a memorial perhaps. The next of kin would take care of the arrangements,
presumably, and yet they would all want to be there—but what if it was down
there, in the freaking Pyrenees. As he recalled Maintenon’s late wife was
buried in a cemetery here in the city. They wouldn’t all be able to go,
especially if it was down there, and yet someone should—probably him, and he wasn’t quite ready to get
into that just yet. He just didn’t have the information.
“Fuck.”
That sounded like LeBref, the near midget, Joseph,
who had known Gilles as well as, and as long as, anyone.
It was like the people just couldn’t find the words.
Margot wiped her eyes and blew her nose one more time,
keeping the crumpled tissues in her hand for now.
Roger cleared his throat and tried again.
“They have search parties out, in the faint hopes that
he might be clinging to a log somewhere down in the gorge, but it’s been almost
two days and no sign of him.” Up in the mountains, even in June, the nights
were very cold and the water near-freezing from the snow-melt. “I have a phone
number for the chief down there, and I will be calling him as soon as I get
back down to my office.”
Levain nodded, his head was down, but still listening
nevertheless…
Roger bit down hard, and there was a long silence.
“Sir.”
“Yes, Andre?”
“Was there any indication of foul play…?”
Roger stared at him.
“Now that, is one very good question.” There was that
crazy freezer thing, to his knowledge the police inquiries were generally
getting nowhere. “Without a body, how could we possibly know…”
He trailed off, looking lost.
“Not that I am aware of, Andre.”
There was a long sigh from Hubert, shaking his
head…looking at the clock on the wall, and then eyes drifting inevitably
towards the coffee-pot, and then tearing themselves away in a kind of
self-disgust.
He and Roger exchanged a look of understanding: life
must go on, no matter how unpalatable the thought. The work would never end.
Hubert’s eyes dropped.
Merde.
Maintenon. Dead.
It was all too much to comprehend.
***
A couple of hours later, the detectives, pressed for
time and results, and with little more to be said, had more or less gotten back
to work. Levain had to leave, taking the new guy with him on their latest case,
which had some hopes of being solved…
Margot was off to court.
Hubert, for one, was finding it hard going. It was
just the three of them now, in between phone calls and other interruptions.
“I just can’t believe it.” He shook his head.
“Gilles—fishing, no less. What, was he going back to his youth or something.
Okay, he was an older man, the banks are quite steep. Maybe he slipped on mud
or wet grass and hit his head. But then there’s that fucking freezer in his
kitchen, with three fucking dead bodies in it. If he really is…gone, I find it very
hard to believe that this is a complete coincidence.”
There were no takers for this conversational gambit,
and one could hardly blame them.
Even so, his instincts were killing him—just as poor
old Gilles would have said.
It was just too much of a coincidence.
“What’s the name of the river down there?”
LeBref looked up from his phone-work, and shook his
head. He put his hand over the mouth-piece.
“Look it up.” That was it.
Archambault, a little late for work this morning but
having been briefed on the situation, and wrought with his own emotions, barely
looked askance, busy with his own telephone, his own notes. One quick glance
out of one fairly jaundiced eye, and that was about it for him—
Still, it was a kind of support, if not exactly
encouragement, and Hubert resolved to do just that.
The bullshit piled up on his desk would just have to
wait.
Mind made up, Hubert was just rising, heading on down
to the research library in the basement, which was universally referred to as the catacombs, when LeBref covered the
phone again and spoke.
“While you’re at it, get the number of that fucking
cop-shop down there.”
Archambault covered his own telephone mouth-piece.
“Get every bit of God-damned information they have.”
It was gruff, but the man was a veteran, perhaps even a legend in his own
right.
“…sorry about that, can you repeat that last line…?”
Archambault, in control of himself, nothing but pure professionalism.
Back to work again.
Hubert, bit his lip in cold emotion and nodded
sharply. No, it wasn’t over yet, with all due respect to the locals…back on the
job, and with a real vengeance this time.
“Will do.”
The rest of them could get on with the work.
And tomorrow was another day, as they often said in
the homicide business.
It could hardly be any worse than this one.
END
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