Louis Shalako
With the systematic following-up of new leads, also
leading to new questions, and hopefully, new answers, it was time for a
strategy session. Legwork was fine as far as that went, but there was a time
for brain work as well.
“All right. How do we want to handle Savard and
Bourdillon.” Langeron—
Hubert took that one.
“Okay. The source suggested we simply call Savard.
He also suggested making the same sort of call to other institutions. A simple
request for an inventory of all, er, stiffs on hand.” Assuming no big
surprises, no great harm would be done—as for Bourdillon, he might be in deep
trouble, where only the police could help. “In fact, that is exactly how we
phrase it with Monsieur Savard. Don’t let on that we know anything. It’s just a
routine inquiry and they probably have nothing to worry about, right?”
Roger nodded.
“Hmn.”
There was quite a list of unfinished business. They
hadn’t called the football club secretary yet, among other things—they still
had to get that serial number and phone Monsieur Aubert, all kinds of little
details.
There just weren’t enough hours in the day
sometimes.
“So. How in the hell did they take three bodies out
of the hospital?”
“Inside help. Pull up to the loading dock. Grab a
gurney. They have dozens of them lined up in the halls sometimes. And you’re
just a couple of guys in coveralls. If anyone asks your business, you don’t
know anything. You’re just following orders, you wave around some paperwork.
The company name is on there and everything. But think about it, sir. These
professional types, the academics, they’re taking a full hour for lunch,
assuming they can even get it. Besides teaching, they have their other duties
at the hospital. They’re all doctors and surgeons. All the perps need is a
little information. What if they had at least one freezer right in the back of
the vehicle. It is at least insulated. They don’t want them thawing out. This
implies their base of operations couldn’t be too far away. Certainly within the
city limits.”
Roger nodded.
“Walk in, grab them, walk out…bold, I will give them
that much.”
“Considering what an unarmed security guard earns,
or even a building custodian. It really wouldn’t take much of a bribe, just to
gain access. They’d be in and out in less than half an hour…” The halls were crowded
at times, and empty at others.
What if a security guard, well-bribed and timing it
perfectly, just happened to be
walking down the hall in close proximity right when he was needed most—
“Huh.”
Also.
There had been no real effort, considering the available
manpower, to determine if Abu Samaha could be found at an old address, which
they might be able to narrow down with a phone call, or two, or three. They at
least had a photo of the man. They had all the names, which all agreed would be
fake, and yet that also had to be confirmed. Bisson was a fairly common name,
Samaha much less so. There was the question of finding a few of them, hundreds
even considering Bisson, in the phone book. These were merely assumptions.
There was the question of the possible rental, lease, or theft of the larger
vehicle. There were other questions, other details.
“We could at least take a look through the phone
book. I agree, though, it’s probably a waste of time.” Roger was lounging on
the corner of Maintenon’s desk. “And then there’s this.’
He indicated a red file folder laying on the desk.
“What in the hell was Gilles doing down in the
catacombs, two days before his departure? According to Leonard down there, this
is the file he was asking for, and he spent some considerable time at one of
the reading desks, reading it through from end to end.”
“That one is definitely interesting.” Garnier.
“Which file is that, sir.” Hubert—
“Smirnov…Vadim.” The case went back to 1913, more
than twenty-five years before.
Archambault’s mouth opened…thoughts congealed in his
head.
“Smirnov!” The look of awe kind of said it all. “Yes.”
***
The answer was so simple, especially when you were holding it in your hand.
He was shaving, with a candle and a straight razor,
and the warm shaving cream was wafting its aroma around the space.
A simple hand mirror, picked up at the pharmacy for
nineteen centimes, useful enough when shaving, and the perfect surface for
snagging someone’s fingerprints.
Fuck, one good, clean print would be enough.
Éliott nodded to himself in the mirror. Splashing a
bit of water on his face and neck, using the old man’s one decent towel, he
could deal with it for some time. As long as it took—
He’d wash that thing out when he got the
opportunity. A little excess shaving cream on there might even be an
improvement.
After one hell of a good sleep, the day had dawned
anew, bright, fresh, shiny, with the promise of rain on the horizon, a
conclusion drawn after a faint rumble of thunder shortly before dawn. Yet the
sky was still blue, and it hadn’t happened as yet. The mountain might hide a
lot of things, what with all those trees in the way. It was like you couldn’t
see past the forest, and once you were in it, you couldn’t see much for the
trees either. As for a little soreness, all that cycling, hiking up hill and
down dale; that too must pass.
“So. Sir. How do you feel about breakfast? I’ve been
meaning to try out that bacon, and maybe some of those potatoes. I usually chop
up a little onion, and maybe toss in a little poivre noir, a little bit of buerre
in the pan to start them off. What do you say, mon ami?” There were plenty of eggs as well. “The thing is, once I
open the tin, we might as well do them all.”
“Oh. Oh…oh,
my head hurts.”
“That’s a good sign, sir, it’s a sign that you’ve
been getting enough to drink. What you need is good old hair of the dog. That
and one of my funny little pills here. I swear by ‘em, I honestly do—”
The poor old guy was dry heaving and retching a bit,
which could be contagious and Éliott was doing his best just to ignore it. He
rolled his eyes, heaved a deep sigh, and kept playing the fool—right to the
hilt.
“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we start off with the
coffee. I don’t know about you, but a man has to eat just a little more often
than I, myself, have been doing lately…”
“Argh.”
“Good. I’m so happy you feel that way. I’m going to
have to finish trimming that hair of yours. This morning. My fault, really. I
had to get the fucking hair out of that wound, in order to put the bandage on.
Know what I mean?” Éliott put a little sugar in a cup and poured in coffee that
was still relatively hot, although he’d been up for a while.
The older man was just awakening, with a perfect
stranger having taken over his home, his kitchen and even his life to some extent.
All of this in the clear light of day, and with a sore head to boot.
“Well, I can understand. You’re just not used to all
of this pampering.”
“Kid, I got a head like a half-chewed caramel right
now, would you mind shutting the fuck up for a while? Oh, oh, oh…”
“Of course. Ah—careful with that. And here’s a
couple of pills. Anyways, I got to get us some more, ah, some more God-damned
fucking water.”
Judging by the glare he got, this might be a good
time to let the man have a little space.
With a mirror, you could polish the hell out of it,
and it wouldn’t look too unnatural to be doing so. As for the cheap metal cups,
a quick rinse, a rub of the fingers to get the lip-guck off of there, and that
was about it around here. They’d both been handled by both men so they’d just
be a mess of smudges.
***
He was out the door and heading for the gushing little side-creek where they got water when he heard an odd little animal noise from the brush alongside on his right.
It was the girl, hours before he had expected her.
She’d been lying in wait.
She put a finger up to her lips, in a universal
sign, before he could speak.
Glancing back at the door of the shack, he stepped
off the trail and into the bushes. The old man would take a while to get going,
and it seemed safe enough.
She handed him a note.
I can’t come
today, I have to work at the library.
Capucine.
Like a fool, he’d taken off without his own pen and
pad…fuck, what do I do. They had a slip of paper, but she hadn’t brought a
pencil…fuck.
She was pushing him back onto the trail, and he had
another look before stepping out.
One way or another, they would be able to handle it.
He gave her a quick wink, a nod and just kept on
going.
His heart was in full song. She came back. She came
back—
And every little breeze seemed to whisper…Capucine.
The rhyme wasn’t very good, but it would have to do
for now.
***
“Now where, is that blasted girl.” The hermit, having had a pretty good taste of the cognac the day before, was fretting and fussing something awful.
“I don’t know. Doesn’t she have a farm or something
around here, uh, maybe a job somewhere?”
“Ah. Fuck, yes, they call her in sometimes when they
get behind. They have her re-shelving books down at the library in Luchon. She
told me all about it.” The crazy old fucker made a sign, palms together, and
then spreading them out as if to read. “That means book.”
“Ah. Nice. My first sign, and I reckon I’m going to
need them all. That and a cow, you know. For the milk. That’s for when we have
lots and lots of kids. Well, I wouldn’t worry too much. We still have a good
third left in the bottle, and then we still have…ah, not quite three full
bottles of the beer. I love them re-sealable caps, eh. That should be enough to
last us the day, don’t you think—” A question struck him. “How do they call
her?”
“Her fucking mother answers the phone, you
half-wit.”
“Ah. Okay.”
There was still a fair bit of food, tobacco, coffee,
anything that a man might want.
The hermit was shaking his head, a little more
functional now, with at least one good shot into him as well as a couple of
pain pills. Thirty milligrams of codeine in each one, and those seemed to be
taking effect as well. The coffee probably helped too, thought Éliott, it would
be a combination of many things rather than just one little thing.
They were going to have to mellow him out a little
more before attempting too much personal grooming.
“Argh.”
Time healed all wounds, and that was true enough
with the common hangover.
As for the hermit, it was getting on time for a
shave and a haircut.
“Here.” He pushed the bottle a little closer. “Throw
a little splash of that in your coffee. Yeah, next time I get a chance, I want
to grab a few tins of condensed milk. It’s very sweet. I’ve always thought the
flavour’s a bit off, but it’s tolerable enough.”
“I’ve had tinned milk before, young man.”
“My name’s Éliott, sir. You might want to give that
a try once in a while. So, where did you have tinned milk? That was at Verdun,
I’ll bet—”
The hermit scowled.
“What would a goofy little whipper-snapper like you
know about Verdun.”
Éliott nodded.
“True enough, sir. True enough.” And thank fucking
God for that. “Anyways, sir, it seems to me that we have two choices. One, I
can cut your hair. Or, two, I can whip out my little harmonica. There’s an old
Basque song I’ve been working on…”
“Argh.”
END
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Chapter Thirteen.
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