Dead Reckoning, Chapter Seventeen. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #10. Louis Shalako.

Like something out of Zane Grey.

Louis Shalako

Worn out as he was from his own little ordeal, Éliott had skulked, stalked, slithered, and clambered over rocks and fallen trees, some of which were huge and very rotten, literally crumbling under him in some cases. He really had belly-crawled in the final stretch. He had holed up in between two large slabs of the native stone, over a metre thick. There was a spot that was thankfully flat, at least partially padded by clumps of moss in green and grey. His position was screened by the branches of small, resinous shrubs that he thought might be juniper going by the little blue berries, looking as if they’d been dusted with something powdery, like icing sugar.

He’d pulled out the camera, hiding it in a crevice just to his right. He’d gotten the people at the store to throw in a good piece of the same paper they wrapped the sausages in—the camera, bundled up in its brown paper and practically invisible under a few dead leaves and small twigs, would be all right for a day or two anyways. It was better if the hermit didn’t see that just yet.

Sure enough, he’d fallen asleep…thankfully, he didn’t snore, or at least he thought not. He was a bare fifty or sixty metres from the cliff shelter and it was in plain sight from this perspective. When he woke up, there was gravel stuck to his cheek, the jacket and the shirt were riding up and something had bitten him a couple of times right in the fleshy part above the right hip.

Oh, yes. When he realized he was awake, it was with a barely-stifled groan. He was stiff and sore all over, something he really hadn’t bargained for. Especially the ankles, the calves and the upper legs. Some of the other body parts weren’t so good either. All that riding, all of those hills.

Argh.

Peering through a gap, biting his lip, he saw that the bags were gone. Even better, the door was open, the curtains were open just a slice, and there was blue smoke coming out of the stove pipe.

“The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” His old man had said that once over the dinner table, and his mother had giggled—covering her mouth, blushing a bit, and then arching her eyebrows, lifting her chin and giving him a certain look.

The old man had winked back.

Kind of a disturbing image, in retrospect—

He grinned a feral grin.

“Gotcha, you son of a bitch.”

If that wasn’t bacon he smelled, he would be a monkey’s uncle.

As for his mother, she’d always been a very good cook and he had the brothers and sisters to prove it.

Mere LeBeaux: a very good cook.

***

Martin Garnier was still waiting on the results of that sergeant’s exam, but.

The detectives had come up with an idea.

“Planted information?” Roger Langeron, elegant as usual, with a good tailor and an even better barber, and unflustered by just about anything, was non-committal. “Well, it’s an idea.”

He sat there in a chair at the side of Maintenon’s desk, with Garnier standing and Hubert leaning back in the chair behind his own desk. He’d calmed down considerably since a day or two before, and that was a good thing.

“Ah, yes, sir. The idea is that a fairly senior officer, someone in a position to have the information, not just any old rumour-monger, leaks to the press, certain information. Normally, we would withhold as many details as possible. This time, we take an opposite tack—we’re going to release all kinds of detail. We’re not telling the criminals anything they don’t already know. It helps us just to keep the story alive in the news, for one thing. But basically, we can be choosy about what we let out there. One, someone bought a couple of dozen bags of ice. That almost had to have been the same day, right. They did have the freezer, one assumes, but the lid was off and the interior in very good condition as far as the technical people can determine. That’s a fairly solid date. They might have been dumb enough to be wearing those coveralls, right. We would get at least one sighting. A better description of even one suspect might turn out to be very helpful. That would have been an unusual purchase in almost any case, although the big ice companies all have their regular customers. It’s a wholesale-retail thing. Perhaps someone on that list made an unusually large purchase. Distributors know an awful lot about their customers, they know what they bought last week, and the week before. They know what to expect for this week’s order and they have to plan accordingly.” There were only so many companies in town, and there were other approaches, after all. “If they cleaned out a corner store somewhere, we might even get a call.”

This one leveraged the power of the press and might even save a little time and manpower.

“I see.” Langeron nodded, in fact poor old Gilles had always kept a good relationship with more than one journalist, for just such eventualities—the late Hector Vachon, Maintenon’s buddy came to mind.

That one still hurt, as he’d known and liked the man as well.

“What else.”

“Okay, sir. The freezer had to come from somewhere. The tools they dumped when stealing the van had to end up somewhere. If somebody found them somewhere, we’d sure like to know. We could offer a small reward—no questions asked, but the owners are just trying to get those tools and materials back. Somebody had to make those signs, Montgolfier Brothers, those were fairly professional, and the vehicle had to be kept under wraps for some time before the actual delivery. Someone had to make those coveralls, with the name on the back and everything. There must be an industrial supply shop in town that does that sort of thing. What if it was a rented space. What if it wasn’t, or, what if they owned it under their own name. The people that did the work had to come from somewhere and to disappear back into somewhere. The bodies had to come from somewhere. What if it’s some big institution somewhere? They might not even be aware they are missing yet, alternatively, if they have discovered, ah, some discrepancy in the number of bodies in stock—we’re thinking of some medical school somewhere, a hospital morgue, even an official police morgue somewhere, fuck, for all we know a funeral home, they might have mislaid a body or two, and they sure as hell wouldn’t be all that eager to talk about it.”

Elegant, and unflustered.

Somebody, teaching anatomy somewhere, might just be missing three stiffs and not even know it. They might even be grateful, to know the police had them in safe keeping. It was interesting, in that the bodies hadn’t been embalmed. They were just dead—

Doctor Poirier was saying the bodies had been on ice for a while, and that was definitely suggestive.

“Do it.” Langeron nodded. “Who did you have in mind?”

“I’ll do it myself.” Hubert was firm on that. “It doesn’t matter too much, when the police officer in the story is going to be pretty much anonymous. Yet I will have to give my name, as the journalists have to have at least some confidence in the source. So do the readers. I’m a sacrificial goat, if it ever comes down to that—”

Someone would have to be accountable.

He couldn’t help it, he had to get up and pace a little, but this was definitely unusual. It had its risks. Were they supposed to ask for volunteers? Why put somebody else on the spot. The responsibility was his, and his alone…

“I’m thinking of a lunch date, somewhere nice, assuming they even bite on it. That way they can get a look at me, ah, no photos of course…” Once he’d gotten a couple of stiff drinks into him, he’d let them have it. “What reporter wouldn’t bite on a free lunch in any case…”

Roger nodded along…so far.

“…the approach is everything, of course.”

And poor old Hubert was a member of the Special Homicide Unit. The press were going to lap it up and they could hardly deny that, him or Delorme. The Inspector had already cleared it if only they could get Roger to go along.

The mere mention of Maintenon’s name would work its own magic.

“…and so, right at the end of the story, we remind the readers that the police could hardly ever solve any crime, big or small, without some degree of assistance from the public, and then we make a good, clear mention of the fact that we will take all calls in the strictest confidence. Just in case they’re a bit shy and are worried about their own asses. We’ll talk about a reward, at the beginning and at the end of the story. Right?”

Roger didn’t have too much to say to that. As plans went, it was good enough to get going on…

They could talk about it later, but Hubert had been humbled in a way that really hadn’t happened before. What the hell, it might even do him some good—and yet he would probably redeem himself soon enough. They still hadn’t run out of ideas yet, and that was good too.

“Do it.”

“Yes, sir.” Hubert and Garnier exchanged glances.

Garnier spoke up.

“First of all, thank you for the, uh, authorization. Second, if we think of anything else, we can throw that in too—we’re holding back on the, er, LeBeaux thing, that only makes sense.”

Roger grinned at that first one. He understood the sentiment, in what was a kind of shorthand. But these guys were only going to go so far out on a limb. Not without running it past higher authority. And even Delorme had deferred to Roger. He nodded at the second point.

“So. Any idea of who—or where?” They had anticipated the question and therefore they’d put some thought into it.

It was Hubert who spoke.

“We’ll try Le Temps first. It’s a serious, paper-of-record sort of thing, with a reputation for being serious, so serious as to the point of boredom. They might be interested in something, um, just a little bit different, especially if it’s offered as an exclusive. If they won’t go for it, we’ll give it to Figaro, they are much more conservative, very much anti status-quo. They’re a royalist paper; and not too fond of democracy, but they also have the kind of national circulation we’re interested in.” While he had no great relationships at either paper, he had a few names in mind—their bylines were all over the paper, and at least one or two specialized in crime-writing. “The basic premise is that I am disgruntled, pissed off, and mostly just belly-aching. But also swearing to the facts as stated. Just trying to light a fire under someone’s butt as the Maintenon investigation appears to be going nowhere…”

If someone in the department should get offended by all of this, maybe even issue their own statement, it would only serve to make it more real. It could be arranged, after all. He stood there, eyebrows raised in a questioning manner.

“Do it.” Roger rose to go. “We’ll talk about LeBeaux when we get more information. And not before. In the meantime, I’m keeping an open mind, ah—insofar as that is possible.”

There had been no sightings of, and no communication from LeBeaux. The longer that situation went on, the longer it was likely to continue, pure instinct on some level. Having been notified, all the small police detachment in Luchon could do was to keep an eye out for him, and if he was spotted, the Unit would get a call. The request, which was both official and unofficial at the same time, (which was not really a contradiction in police work), was to observe, to identify, and to report, other than that, let us know and take no immediate action. We will advise.

Garnier stopped him before he could go.

“Ah, Detective Hubert has a request…or two.”

“Yes?”

“I want to go around to LeBeaux’s house and take them his paycheque. Er, I mean the pay stub, but with the money in cash.” He could explain that LeBeaux was on special assignment, they were not to worry, that he would be home soon and he sends his love, although this kind of thing might be tough to fake.

It wasn’t like he wasn’t being sincere—he really would mean it, it was just that he knew a little more than he would be letting on. Sooner or later, they’d have to pay the rent, as he put it.

And if LeBeaux had called home in the meantime, the odds were, they’d tell him right off. The thing there, was to play stupid—but nice. Confused, maybe. But still nice.

“Done. Anything else.”

“I want to talk to, ah, consult, the shrink, or someone in the social services division. Ah, I mean about LeBeaux.” Not so much for me, in other words—

“Sure. Do whatever you need to do. Let’s hope we get some results.”

“There’s more—”

Roger nodded. There always was.

“I was wondering if anyone had spoken to the d’Coutu woman, er, since the event. Also, one wonders if she’s been paid off or whatever. It occurs to me that we really ought to go around and put a seal on the door—Maintenon’s apartment. I don’t know—just to keep people out of there, maybe.” Then there was the will.

Guillaume had alluded to it, without actually saying what was in it. That might be interesting information. The flat was worth real money, and it had been all paid off at the bank for some years. Maintenon would almost certainly have a bank account. At his rank, the salary was pretty decent and that went back ten or twenty years. He was known for living within his means and his needs had been simple and few—the fact that he hadn’t taken a vacation or gone anywhere in years spoke to that. The will would almost certainly be in the desk in Maintenon’s study, knowing the man and the way his mind worked. Either that, or in a safety deposit box somewhere.

“We have no idea of whether Guillaume and the wife went around there or not…”

Roger nodded.

“All right. Do that too. I’ll get us a nice, quiet little warrant for that one.”

It was the best they could do for now.

He stood there, looking around at Maintenon’s desk for a moment. The hat was there, and the gun had been properly stowed somewhere, presumably, tagged, logged and locked up. He picked the hat up and fingered the brim. There was that catch in the throat, the very breath again. That sense of emptiness, again.

Fuck.

He turned back.

“And thank you. There is always hope, gentlemen—and lady.”

Busy at her phone, the only other person in the room, Margot gave him a quick wink and kept on scribbling.

So, that was it, then.

They were back in business.

END

 

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Hmn. Interesting.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

 

Real Change is Incremental.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dead Reckoning, Chapter Sixteen. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #10. Louis Shalako.

Quick and casual.

Louis Shalako 

LeBeaux befriends a hermit. The thought brought a wry grin.

If only he knew what he was doing. If only he could pull it off.

It was simple enough, really. LeBeaux had stopped at a little crossroads, a hamlet, with a store, a veranda, a single pair of petrol pumps out front and not much else, and had picked up a few small things. He had two brown paper shopping bags absolutely jammed full of groceries. The pockets of his rough plaid hunting jacket were fairly well stocked as well. He’d taken the time beforehand, to peel off a few small bills and stash them in a side pocket, rather than pulling out the whole big wad, big enough to choke a horse. This was a phrase which was right out of an old Zane Grey western, or was it block a stovepipe, one or the other. A big wad of bills would have aroused curiosity and possible comment. It was infinitely better to be forgotten. Thieves lived in the country too, and muggings were not exclusively a big-city problem. Any good cop should know that. There were crimes of opportunity everywhere and there were some very bright people in the world. There were plenty of wise guys as well.

And then there was him.

And then there was this—

Seeing the opportunity, he had taken a quick look around, and then, bending over, he had stuffed the right pant leg down the top of his sock.

Straightening up, he took another relaxed kind of glance around. The whole thing had been surprisingly easy.

He had shamelessly stolen an unlocked bicycle from a rack in front of the train station, a red one, using it to make a casual escape. It was the first couple of hundred metres that were the worst. It was like someone’s eyes were boring a hole in your back, right between the shoulder blades. No one had uttered a peep or given him a second glance. It had gone off without a hitch. Éliott had gotten ten or fifteen kilometres down the road, huffing and puffing along as best he could, before ditching it under a culvert. With the name of the village, and a good memory, he could always mail a brief note, a little map, an apology, some small compensation for the victim, down to the local police department. Fifty francs might atone for a lot of sins, especially if they were lucky and got their bicycle back. This time of year, the sun was up pretty early. At that time of day, the roads had been mostly deserted, except for the occasional farm vehicle. People were busy on their own business and not too interested in nondescript young men on bicycles. People barely looked at him, or so it would seem. A man on a tractor, working in a field, would be intent enough on following the furrows and besides there was the sheer distance from the road.

"Ah, bonjour, Monsieur."

Yes, and when he’d parked it out in front of the general store, his first thought had been thieves—but there had been no one about.

He’d hoofed it most of the way after ditching the bike, lucky to hitch a ride the last few kilometres or he would have been in a lot worse shape. As it was, the boots were slowly breaking in and the sore spots were still tolerable.

Cheap boots, and what can you say—the thing was to avoid blisters, at almost any cost.

Once a blister popped and leaked out that thin fluid, it was ten times worse and took forever to heal.

He had stopped at the store, gotten another two or three kilometres away, and then stood at the roadside and stuck his thumb out, shopping bags beside him, going mostly on hope and dreams at that point. His luck had held and the second vehicle to come along had pulled over and offered a ride.

He’d asked to be let out of the vehicle a couple of kilometres down the road from his destination, just to break the trail. He’d cooked up a story along the way, claiming he was heading for his elderly Aunt Minnie’s house, just around the corner as he claimed without being too specific, and the driver was turning off the other way anyhow. It was a hell of a lot better than hiking down the railroad tracks, which were all too easily predictable. It wouldn’t have taken Hubert very long to miss him, or to guess where he was going.

What he had, was a short window of opportunity. The object of the game was to disappear. He’d have to avoid Luchon like the plague, and that went without saying. Yet he had plenty of money, and there would be other unlocked bikes out there. Rural villages weren’t all that far apart. There would be other friendly motorists, perhaps. It was not like he couldn’t just buy another bicycle in a village fifteen or twenty kilometres away. An officer did have the right to commandeer—things, or even people, if necessary.

After the long hike in, the arms and shoulders just ached. It was one hell of a load, especially for paper bags, all laminated double layers as they were, and he was grateful that it was at least dry in terms of the weather. What he might have done if one of the bags had broken was a question he had contemplated deeply, all the while praying for his luck to hold on just a little bit longer.

"Oooh. Commandeer me, Baby."

He’d chosen the bait with care. He had a dozen eggs, a full kilo of fresh-cut bacon, all in one big slab. He’d carefully considered the eggs, but two or three small hens wouldn’t produce that many eggs on a weekly basis. That seemed logical. A short string of sausages, hard and dry. He’d focused on things that would keep for a couple of days without refrigeration. A couple of onions, tinned potatoes, which he wasn’t too fond of, but at least they didn’t need peeling. They were all right for frying in the pan, alongside the bacon. He had tinned beans, he had a fresh loaf. Cheese. He had sardines and soup. Jam and butter. He had a tin of instant coffee, the same brand they used at home, some sugar, and condensed milk. Biscuits. A couple of apples and a couple of oranges. He’d bought a few chocolate bars and a bag of knock-off corn-chips; another one of those wonderful American inventions. He had put some thought into just what a hermit might like to eat, what he might reasonably be able to cook in there, and also what he would like to drink the most. And, like a true professional, he was still saving his receipts.

Hopefully, he could put his hand on the Bible, swear an oath, and justify it all in the end.

He’d put himself into the mind of his prey, which accounted for the bottle of cognac and the three small boxes of thin, black cheroots. He’d made sure to grab a big box of kitchen matches, and couple of rolls of toilet paper.

The real weight was made up of four very large bottles of a local beer, one and a half litres each, replete with easy-open, flip-top caps. Fuck, he had a couple of tin cups, a wash-cloth, soap, everything, including a thin, knit turtleneck sweater that might be a little big on the man as he remembered him, but that would be much better than too small. That and three pairs of fresh socks—one of which was for him, and hopefully, sooner rather than later. A man like that might kill for fresh socks and a nice, new sweater.

Just a tiny little place.

He’d stopped at another little crossroads, a tiny little hamlet with its one and only store, just at the last minute, in sheer inspiration, picking up a razor, a pair of scissors, and one or two other little things that might be of interest to a person living rough.

And in the final, pièce de résistance, a cheap little mouth organ, which he would hopefully remember how to play.

He’d even picked out his first song.

He’d been wearing the more casual clothes on the train, even the boots. Hubert had made no mention of it, accepting it at face value, and in fact Hubert had ditched the suit himself, although he had also foregone the boots. It helped to blend in, or so he had told himself. Just another farm labourer, on a bicycle, going off to scythe some hay or whatever. Or should that be sickle—

All he had to do now was to make the approach.

The day was warm, it was coming up on high noon, yet this time he knew his way. There was a breeze, and it had been dry for a while. The biting insects were much in abeyance, and for that he was truly grateful. Even the birds were being quiet, this time of day.

The trail turned to mud again, a little drier now and then there was the cliff.

It was only just around the corner now, and he approached cautiously, silently, like some frontiersman stalking deer or wild Indians…like Davey fucking Crockett, and that was something to contemplate.

To be caught, to be confronted would be disaster, and he listened carefully, to the sound of water in the background. He could hear the chickens, but no one was splitting kindling or anything like that. There were no voices. There were no lorries, or tractors off in the distance. It was so quiet, he could hear the gentle breeze in the treetops above, and a pair of dry leaves, stubborn holdovers from last year, knocking together closer to the ground.

He might be able to talk himself out of trouble. No, the trouble, the real trouble, was that he needed to talk his way in.

He stuck close to the cliff-face. He had a peek around some thin saplings, fully in bud. The door and the window were closed. A small padlock was on the door. This seemed to confirm that there was no one home, and therein lay danger as well. It hadn’t really occurred to him, but what if the fellow had gone away and wasn’t coming back. This was not a good thought, to be sure.

The guy could also be coming along from behind him, and he would never hear him or see him coming. There was also that fucking shotgun—

Staying as low and as quiet as possible, he put the bags down a metre in front of the door.

The hermit could not miss them.

Turning and moving as quickly and as quietly as possible, with his trusty map in his pocket, he got the hell out of there. He could only hope the hermit wasn’t coming home along this particular trail, just around the next corner, but he had something of a plan and it was going well enough. He tried to stand up straight, and not look too furtive. Furtive was bad.

Walk like you own the place.

He even knew where he was going—

Rugged indeed.

The next two hundred metres were crucial, just getting away from the scene of the crime so to speak, and then he could circle around through the woods, using dead reckoning, and come right back in a kind of fish-hook maneuver. He would belly-crawl the last fifty metres when it came right down to it. Right about then, he was grateful for good eyes and even better hearing, he had that much going for him. He had his wits, and he would find a place. Hell, he’d even been a Scout, with nineteen merit badges—if he couldn’t do this, no one could.

Then, he would watch and he would wait.

The bait was set, the trap would be sprung, and he had his plan all worked out. It would all work out—

He just knew it.

 

END

 

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

"Louis really needs to write that last chapter, folks."

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Real Change is Incremental.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

Oh, God, when will it be over...

Louis Shalako 

At last, it seemed as if it was all over, but no, it wasn’t over yet. Finally, as if in some silent but collective agreement, perhaps a slight nod from Langeron, and it was their time, maybe, to answer a few questions.

Roger Langeron, having a police department to run, had to go, and as for Delorme, he was only acting head of the Unit—he held the rank of Inspector and proper form had to be observed. Someone had to take the responsibility, just for the official record. He still had his own case-load, and his own little crew down the hall to run, and so he had excused himself. He had to leave as well. It was just them, now.

It was their turn to give Hubert some information, which might have been a hopeful sign.

“All right.”

This time, it was the new guy who went first, Constable Martin Garnier. He had written the sergeant’s exam only days before but didn’t have the results back yet. He was temporarily with the Unit, just helping out and getting some experience. He was, in fact, giving up (or deferring, to be exact), two weeks of vacation for the opportunity. His own boss would have never given him up, even temporarily, otherwise. He’d been specifically requested by Levain himself, who had gone so far as to suggest the man write the test, just in case, which really said something. He might have been a little self-conscious, regarding himself, right about then, which was no big help for poor old Hubert.

Having introduced himself, and briefly explained himself, he got right down to it.

“Okay. Regarding the deep freezer unit in Maintenon’s kitchen. I interviewed as many of the neighbours as I could catch, and I went back at different times of day as many people work or simply go out in daytime hours. Sometimes the uniform is very helpful, rather than plainclothes and simply showing ID. Alphonse drove me around and he’s kind of known there by sight anyways. The car is, for sure. That thing’s absolutely spotless, by the way. We now have some actual witnesses, who have told us that they did see the, er, activity. They simply thought someone was moving in, or perhaps someone on the other side of the street was getting a new freezer, and maybe some new rugs. A renovation, redecorating or something. People see something and draw the most obvious conclusions; and then, they just forget about it. A delivery van with signs on the sides, men in coveralls, it all seems legitimate enough. Bear in mind, the people on the same side of the street can see much less due to the angles. We didn’t get anything from Maintenon’s immediate, next-door neighbours, upper or lower, left or right. Nothing much from the barber shop next door or the little dress shop across the way on street level. Ah, the one big question was, how in the hell did four men carry that huge weight up the stairs? That’s a very large freezer, three bodies and all that ice. We’re talking anything up to a couple of dozen bags of ice.” That ice had to come from somewhere as well, just one more avenue of inquiry, and one which needed following up.

Garnier: good enough for a tryout.

It seemed unlikely that they would have driven for kilometres, all over town, buying it one bag at a time.

Hubert listened carefully…open-mouthed. Yes, this guy was good all right—good enough, anyways.

“So, they drag the freezer, already out of the crate, out of the van and up to Maintenon’s residence. The lid was off, and they had to squeeze it in through the doorway, then put on the lid, and throw in four small bolts. They even had the wrench, as they were properly tightened. A nice touch. They have their three bodies, all wrapped up in fairly light rugs, or heavy packing blankets, and it takes two men for each load…one guy to hold the door perhaps, and another one grabbing bags of ice, two at a time. He’s running up and down to lug all that up the stairs. It saves them the weight, and they didn’t have to dispose of the crate. One person I spoke to has confirmed the name, Montgolfier Brothers on the side…” All of this confirmed to some degree by eyewitness accounts.

They hadn’t even been there a half an hour. That was all it took. A good plan. A quick, slick, and very professional operation.

It was a blue delivery van, as stated by Madame d’Coutu, and for the men, rolling three rugs up into one big bundle, stuffing a bunch of empty ice bags into one or two bags, and taking all of that down wouldn’t have taken all that long. Take a quick peek out into the street. If the way was clear. Pop that in the back, slam the door and they were off. Their plan was obviously to get out of there before Madame came home from shopping.

Leaving her, and Gilles, with a fait accompli.

The housekeeper, an old-fashioned type, in the dark so to speak, and knowing next to nothing about freezers, might have lifted the lid, saw ice cubes and thought nothing of it…she sure as hell wouldn’t be digging down into it. It wasn’t in her personality, as Maintenon himself had noted.

“I’m thinking the ice cubes were a clever gag—a deterrent to any curiosity she might have had. She almost certainly, opened the lid.” Even though she had officially denied it.

Garnier had more ideas.

“What if the freezer with three deaders in there was a prank? Rich school boys come to mind. Someone at the University. A Military academy perhaps. It seems terribly elaborate, with extensive planning, and it must have also been expensive, or certainly dangerous and one would have to wonder about the motivation…and why, er, Gilles, specifically.” One had to wonder why no one had claimed responsibility. “If caught, the consequences would have been serious enough.”

Mischief, theft, offering indignities to the bodies of the deceased, there were a few potential charges, and they were all criminal. False pretences, illegal entry, trespass.

It could run to a fairly long list of charges.

Where was the punchline? To pull such a prank and not talk about it would be almost inhuman, schoolboys or not.

“The whole point of the exercise was not the old lady—it was Maintenon.” Just to be clear on that point.

What would be the point otherwise, as he put it.

Garnier consulted his own notes. Hubert asked for a couple of aspirin, and Margot found a bottle in her desk drawer. He swallowed them down gratefully, hoping they were indeed fast acting, as it said in all the advertisements.

That coffee was getting pretty rancid and it looked like Garnier was about ready again.

“Okay, so I’m new here and you’ve been away all week. There must be some gaps in our mutual knowledge, and I am authorized to read all reports, er, yours and ours so to speak. You will be reading ours as well, one must presume. There is the question of the theory of the crime. Here’s the thing, Detective Hubert. What if? The bodies were delivered to Maintenon’s home, in the most sensational manner possible, so that the Inspector would have to be recused from this investigation or another. There is cause and effect. We have a result. He was, literally, ordered to take a vacation. What investigation? There’s nothing on his desk that seems all that likely, bearing in mind he did pass the files off for others to take on, and naturally we’ve read all of them as well. It seems to have gotten him out of town, perhaps where he might be more vulnerable. Perhaps the killer followed him down there, looking for the right place and time, one with no witnesses.” Now they were back to the gun, and the fact that Gilles was on vacation…the fact that there was no body, made an investigation sheer hell, a point that Hubert had already made…

Killer? What killer. His head was spinning.

“…a very small place, with a very small, perhaps inexperienced police department, especially when it comes to homicide…”

“Okay. Wow. You’re right. I have some catching up to do. Ah, what else?”

There had to be more, he could just tell by the looks on their faces, all expectant and clearly ready to go with their own contributions.

In spite of it all, a grin cracked his face.

“One at a time, please.”

"Too-da-loo, boys."

There were nods and chuckles, and it seemed they were clearing the air in more ways than one—not that he wasn’t still in deep shit, because that sort of went with the territory around here anyways. Margot was looking at her watch and the clock, and it seemed she was due to wrap up in court this afternoon, and after that, her case was in the lap of the gods—or the hands of a jury. There was a pause while she gathered her things and stuffed her briefcase. There was the sporty little jacket, and then the hat.

She gave them a bright little smile.

“Too-da-loo.”

They wished her good luck, and with a waggle of the fingers she was gone.

The short break was welcome enough. Hubert was on the third cigarette and the ashtray was on fire…he took a moment to grind that last one out.

“Okay. So, according to Doctor Poirier, the older male victim had died from complications related to tuberculosis. The lady had died in childbirth, and the younger male due to kidney failure, related to untreated diabetes. We have no idea of whether any of this has some great significance, or how or where the perpetrators acquired the bodies.”

LeBref held up a hand.

“This bit about some old family secret interests me. One wonders why it was even mentioned…” Whose family, as LeBref put it.

What secret? And yet, as he recalled, Maurice had vaguely alluded to such a thing, mostly in passing, and by that time he’d been about ready to fall asleep in his chair. They’d been reading LeBeaux’s notes, apparently, which put them way ahead of him.

LeBeaux’s luggage was sitting right there at the side of his desk. He bit back a groan at the sight of the duffel bag, full of fishing stuff, boots, a jacket, waders, backpacks, fuck. Hubert hadn’t been able to think of what else to do with it, but he couldn’t just leave it on the train, either. Someone had tucked the fishing rods into a back corner…all that money, and time, seemingly wasted. He supposed it was evidence of a kind.

“What if LeBeaux, in the stillness of the night, sits up and thinks, eureka! I’ve got it, and all of a sudden he knows something you don’t. Would he have acted on his own initiative…” That one was pure speculation, and they all knew it, but it also had to be considered.

“And if so, why not tell you? You’re his partner after all…”

Ah. It was time to repress a scream again.

“Guillaume said he wasn’t buying it. Maintenon’s disappearance, and I have been wondering just why he would say something like that.” Archambault.

“And then there’s this girl, and LeBeaux, and what in the hell happened there.” Firmin.

They were right, of course, all in all, it was a hell of a lot to take in all at once.

He was running out of room in his head just trying to keep track of it all.

Garnier ground on.

“Ah, one quick note here. Your film is being developed, and the lab will be sending up the prints just as soon as they dry…” He looked down at the notes again, and then, again, stabbed him right in the guts—

“Ah, also, we can’t seem to locate the actual camera anywhere in the, uh, gear, or the luggage, was it in yours? Did you or do you have some reason to hang onto it for a while yet?”

The boys down in the lab would be asking about that…those things weren’t exactly cheap.

Hubert’s jaw hung slack.

Just when you thought it was over, it was so not over.

 

END

 

Previous.

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three. 

Chapter Four. 

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

 

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