Louis Shalako
Their
last stop was to Maintenon’s flat. They stood just inside the street-level
door. The lock on the mailbox was dead simple. Hubert had the tools and a bit
of a knack. Madame had said the key was in a kitchen drawer, and told them
exactly which one, but it was good to polish the skills from time to time.
Martin held his tongue and waited breathlessly. There was the question of
getting caught, and they didn’t have that warrant yet, either. He’d picked it
in a half a minute and the actual key for Maintenon’s door hadn’t been all that
much quicker. The guts of the lock were worn and he’d had to wiggle and wiggle
the key just to make it work. They’d emptied the mailbox, down below, locking
it back up again, almost a greater achievement than simply opening it according
to Hubert. The lights came on when he snapped the switch, so there was still
power. Hubert put that on a corner of the table for the moment after a quick
riffle through, looking for overdue bills or whatever. He wasn’t even sure why,
not really, but there didn’t appear to be anything interesting anyways. Knowing
Gilles, he would have stopped the papers, any magazines and such that he might
subscribe to. He would have paid the bills before he left. He would also have
been expecting to return in due course.
With the windows closed up for weeks now, the air was musty and still. The first thing to do was to open up a window or two and turn on the tall pedestal fan in the front room.
“Ah, that’s better.”
It was damned warm up there on the third floor.
“Okay, let’s see if we can find the will.” Garnier looked around, never having been in the place before.
It was not huge, but it was certainly big enough, albeit a little grubby from years of benevolent neglect. It wasn’t the cleanliness, so much as the sheer amount of time that had passed, with the faint smell from the pilot lights burning on the gas range, the washing up, the boiling of kettles and bacon frying and pots full of potatoes. Judging by some little vents here and there, it was forced-air heat, most likely from a boiler in the basement. This would be either coal or gas-fired, and then there would be Gilles and his cigars and his pipe. Every little bit of that would contribute, over the years, to that faint yellow tinge to the walls and ceiling.
The place had a certain patina about it.
“Try the study. There will be a desk, and a locked drawer. Gilles has a Beretta around here somewhere as well. Either in the desk or in the bedside table.” Maintenon would have had a keychain, spare keys, all of that sort of thing, and they were the sorts of things that would not necessarily go along on vacation. “Anyone that reads the paper will know the place is vacant.”
And that included thieves—it especially, included thieves, as too many past events had proven. Plundering the homes of the recently-deceased was almost a specialty with some of the real pros.
Hubert went and opened the fridge. It looked like Gilles had cleaned out the milk and stuff, but there were some other things in there that didn’t look or smell very good. Lettuce, tomatoes, the carrots, stuff like that was looking pretty bad. What looked like cold roast beef had definitely gone green. Gilles really ought to have thrown that out.
“Ugh. I’ll see if I can find some garbage bags, or a box or something. But all of this stuff has to go—it’s a little over and above the call of duty…but, even so.”
Garnier went through the archway, looking for a hallway or something, and unsure of the layout.
Well, the will was there, in a sealed envelope, having found a key to the locked drawer on the upper right—the key was at the back, under stacks of old bills, some other boring papers and stuff, going back years. It was in an unlocked drawer, way down on the left side. Just as Hubert had said. As for the Beretta or any other possible weapons, they were beginning to get a little frustrated. It just didn’t seem to be there, and yet Hubert was pretty certain that it would be, or should be, if only they knew just where to look—having gotten a good puff of flour in the face when pulling an open bag out of the cupboard, he was getting a little fed up. They’d already loaded up a couple of bags of wasted food, and put aside a few tins of sardines for LeBref, or more accurately, Sylvestre.
There were only so many places to search. They’d already gone through every pocket of every coat, in every closet sort of thing.
“If a man was going away, there is some reason to make sure of the weapon. When he’s home, there are reasons to keep it relatively close to hand—” Yet they just couldn’t find the thing, one way or another.
“I still think he’s got a safe-deposit box somewhere.”
“Why the gun and not the will, then?” Hubert had a point, one had to admit. “We have the bank book, and we’ll have to call them and ask.”
The actual balance was impressive indeed.
“That’s quite a piss-pot of money, when you sort of see it all at once…”
Figuratively speaking—
“Huh.”
There was a very expensive wrist-watch in a top dresser drawer, still in the original box, and that was just one more example. The cuff-links and tie-clips that he saw were all right, but much more humble in cost and origin. Hubert doubted if the man had ever actually worn it—no more than twice, if that. It was that kind of watch, an engraved presentation from the department, after so many years of service, and a memento, rather than anything Gilles would ever wear. It was solid gold and heavy as hell.
They had gotten to the point of pulling potatoes and onions out of the bins in the small pantry, still looking for the pistol, when there was a bit of noise from the doorway. The door closed behind someone…they stepped out of the pantry.
Alphonse.
Hubert and Garnier stood there, a little surprised to see him, but of course he and Gilles had been fairly close. He’d also been in that fucking car all day long.
“It’s all right.” The tone was gruff, nothing unusual there. “Don’t worry. I have a gendarme, it’s his beat, he’s, uh…he’s keeping an eye on the car.”
“Huh.” Alphonse to the last, thought Hubert.
It struck him that they’d probably miss him when he was gone.
Alphonse pulled a bottle out of a paper sack that he had under the arm.
“I got this up the street. It was Maintenon’s brand.”
Cognac.
“We’ll need some glasses, please. Unless you’re not having one.”
Garnier gave Hubert a look, and he shrugged. Opening a cupboard, Martin found three glasses.
“Sure—why not.”
Opening up the bottle, Alphonse poured three stiff shots.
He set the bottle down on the table and raised a glass.
They took up their own respective glasses…
“Gentlemen. May I propose a toast—”
Hubert choked up a little on that one, but nodded.
“Sure, why the hell not—”
Garnier nodded.
Why not.
“To the ghost of Gilles Maintenon.” Was he fucking serious?
But of course he was.
There was only one thing for it, but to agree, to nod solemnly, to raise the glass, and to drain it.
“To the ghost of Gilles Maintenon.”
And if that didn’t put a rather fine polish on their day, nothing else ever would.
As for Gilles, he would have appreciated it—and who wouldn’t.
END
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