Dead Reckoning, Chapter Twenty-Two. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

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

  

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.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty-One.

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Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

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

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.

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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A Stranger In Paris, Pt. 8. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery. Louis Shalako.

 

Levain: we've caught a break.

 

 Louis Shalako

“All right, Gilles. It seems we might have caught a break.”

“Oh, really? Does that mean the rain’s going to let up?”

“Ah. No, not that. No, I mean a break in our case—the Saulnier case, or whatever the hell we’re calling it.”

“And?”

“Detective Tailler is on his way up. One of his boys knows something interesting, and it includes all three. This might be the connection we’re looking for.”

“I’ll bet its child brothels.” Hell, even LeBref didn’t laugh.

“Shut up, Hubert. All right, I wasn’t going anywhere. Not for a while, anyways.” Gilles’ eyes strayed to the clock.

Tailler, after baptism by fire—pulled into the Unit by Maintenon, on what, looking back, must have been some kind of a whim. And then, after succeeding brilliantly, Emile Tailler had made sergeant. Then he made detective-sergeant, and then, all in the course of about two years, full detective.

A victim of his own success, as well as standardized manning practices, it was suddenly found that poor old Tailler didn’t have the seniority. He was now bottom man on the detective totem-pole, in a very prestigious unit, one rarely comprising more than five or six people. Sure enough, he’d been bumped. In what was a sad irony, a very good and promising young man had been replaced by a dud. A man who just wanted to put it in his memoirs, and a man not particularly suited, either by training or by temperament, for the sort of painstaking, plodding and yet at times very intuitive homicide game…a man, who was already gone by this point in time.

Amicably, and by mutual agreement, but gone nevertheless.

Poor old Tailler, only having so many options, and not prepared to give up the grade or the pay-increase under almost any conceivable circumstances, had gone to another branch.

Intelligence. Their boys had brought down some big players, over the last couple of years, and it was all due to the long-term gathering of criminal intelligence.

Word was, it was becoming much more political over there, and Gilles wondered what Tailler thought of that.

There was a brief flurry of activity in the doorway. LeBref was just going out and Margot and another tall figure were just coming in…

“Oops. Excuse me, young lady—” There was a gape and a step to one side. “Tailler! How’s the weather up there?”

“Er, just fine, thanks.” Emile stood there beaming in through the doorway, seeking out his old boss-man.

With a quick glance and a grin over his shoulder in Maintenon’s direction, LeBref gave the big fellow a pat on the bicep and then continued on his way.

***

Tailler.

“Honestly, Gilles. There are days when I wonder what it would be, to quit. Just quit, you know.”

“That bad, eh?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just don’t know how you do it—how in the hell do we just go on and on and on. And it gets its hooks into you—I know. I know. I simply cannot conceive of myself, doing any other thing. I don’t know anything else. Hell, I got into the police, I suppose, in order to avoid doing all of those other things…all of those other boring things. My brother is a baker, you know? That’s all he does all day, is to make bread. And cakes, and cookies, and tarts, and after a while it’s all the same.”

“Ah. The itch, is what it’s called.”

Tailler nodded.

“Yeah, it’s an itch all right. I’ve got it real bad, lately.”

“So. To our story—”

“Yes. Sorry about all that. It’s just that I miss you guys.” Tailler cleared his throat and opened up the old notebook. “Okay, our source, who must remain confidential as he’s still in there, says our three boys, Saulnier, Cariveau and the other one—Jules, ah, Lalonde, are all socialists.”

“Ah. A connection—a real connection, at last.”

“Here’s the thing, Gilles. And this is where we come in. The fascists hate the communists. The communists hate the fascists, and both sides hate the socialists, who at least represent some moderation. That’s especially true of the Catholic-Socialist-Democratic Party, and some other smaller ones. The Democratic-Catholic-Socialists too, and it’s hard to tell them apart sometimes. Not all of them of course, ah, but, being sort of middle-class, they have a much better chance at forming a government, if not the next one, or the one after that, but some chance. And of course everyone hates the anarchists, the nihilists, and some of the other real extremists.” They were following the examples of the original populists, Marx, and Lenin, and Mussolini, and then Hitler. “There are those who, after all this time, would bring back the imperium.”

An old-fashioned term, but there it was.

Franco in Spain—they were just grasping at power, some of them prepared to pay a very high price in terms of other people’s lives in order to do it.

It inspired all sorts of reactions, some for and some against—some copycats and some that might even have a shred of merit. At least some of them were original, as he put it—but for the most part, the average hommes were harmless political cranks.

Hommes-de-terre, as he put it: political potato people, unsophisticated but with all sorts of ideas.

“I mean, if they had any brains, some of them could become dangerous.”

All they were looking for was a leader. There was some sense of political desperation in the air…more than enough of that going around lately.

“Hmn.”

“We infiltrate as best we can, we have informants, paid and unpaid. We read their news-letters, and our people attend their meetings in some cases. Oh, and some of them seem to attract the attention of certain notable foreign nationals, who have their own agenda. One more reason to keep our eyes on them. Some of the funding is pretty mysterious. Right? But there are also lone wolves and splinter groups—that little wave of bombings last year was one of those. That was a power struggle between two factions in a small but fanatic group. All about two guys with big egos. And an argument about wording, in some bullshit manifesto. It just got out of hand. You’ll be seeing that in the papers, very, very soon now. Yeah, and the rest of the group, a few members anyways, seem to have disappeared back into the woodwork. We’ve also seen an uptick, and a big one, in street brawls, beatings of selected individuals, usually not the higher-ups, and this is done by both major sides, so to speak—fascist and fellow-travellers on the one side, and the communists and socialists on the other side. It’s tactics of intimidation, provocation, trying to disrupt each other’s parades and disrupting their meetings.”

It was all the wrong people reading all the right books, according to him. Some of the nicer people, perhaps sympathetic to one cause or another, were afraid to join anything, after a while.

No one wanted to be beaten up…just for having an opinion.

“And these three young men were socialists. How do we know that?”

“Membership lists. Magazine subscriptions. Attendance and participation at events and meetings…” He sighed. “Fuck! Letters to the editor. It’s not like they were doing anything criminal, Gilles, but they seem to have been enamoured, of the message or something. It’s possible they even believed in it.”

There were questions of ambition, opportunism, trying to pick the winning side, so to speak.

Sucked in by a charismatic figure. An uncle, a brother, a friend. A girl—not everyone hanging around was a believer, as he put it.

He coughed, almost apologetically. There was a bug in his throat—something going around these days.

“I see.”

“Yes. I suppose the real test would be another killing—” And whether or not the next victim was a socialist.

And for that, they would have to wait.

Still, it brought up fresh questions. None of the ladies had mentioned anything of the sort, for example.

Or did this fall under ‘social life’, that was one good question.

As for the women, he doubted if they were political at all…at most, an attitude of polite disapproval of all such things as power, and politics, and those vulgar little politicians. Strutting about like peacocks, half bombast and half self-delusion. The only thing worse, to a certain type, a certain type of woman, would be a woman politician—that was neither here nor there.

“Tailler?”

“Yes, Boss?” It had just slipped out, and he grinned.

It really was like old times.

“What do you think of our little mess?”

Tailler pursed his lips and thought. His eyes cleared.

“This is too subtle. In some ways.”

“Not organized crime, in other words.”

“I would say not.” They were never shy about sending a message.

He sought the words.

“This is not about inheritance, or greed—not so far anyways. It doesn’t seem to be about stealing the best friend’s wife…”

Maintenon nodded. It made sense so far.

“This is a sick little plot, Gilles. You have to admit, it’s pretty complex, so far. And this, this is only a part of it—” Because there had to be some kind of a point, in his words.

There was Margot, quietly watching Maintenon’s face, and listening in spite of her own workload.

So, this was Tailler—

There was a long silence. Tailler shook his head. This was Maintenon’s case, all he knew was what he’d heard, or read. It was like the Hippocratic Oath. First, do no harm.

“So. What is the name of this organization. Where would I find them.”

***

LeBref was at the edge of Maintenon’s desk.

“Yes?”

“We got another strange one, Gilles.”

“Oh, really.”

"Ve've got anodder strange von, Gilles."

 

“Yes. It seems a ticket clerk at the Gare de Lyon was reading the papers. He is telling us that he saw a familiar face. According to him, Monsieur Jean Cariveau bought a ticket, the last train, at the last minute, paid cash…” Several nights ago…

“Where to?”

“Marseille.”

Merde.

“You’re right. That is strange. So, how—”

“It seems our clerk is a member of the club.”

“You mean, another socialist?”

“Yep. A card-carrying, dues-paying member in good standing. And he says he knows Cariveau well enough. Well enough to recognize him, anyways. Well-dressed, one small case and a brief-case. A long, dark coat. Grey slacks, red bowtie, sort of unusual, and brown shoes. Oh. A dark fedora hat.” He sighed. “And here’s the thing, Gilles. Once that ticket was punched, they’ve got their money. He could have gotten off at any other stop. Just drop the ticket stub on the floor somewhere. It’s not like anyone would ever care.”

Coaches were swept out at three and four a.m., and readied for service on the morning runs.

Police were never going to find anything, not by this time.

“All right. Let me have the report. And of course we’re absolutely strapped for manpower.” He caught Margot’s eye coincidentally. “Woman-power too.”

With an appreciative grin, phone cradled between neck and shoulder, she listened intently, making small notes as she went along…

Another busy day at the office. She had her own case-load.

“I’m sorry, Gilles. I’m off to court—anyhow, I thought you might as well know.”

“Thank you. And good luck.” Judging by the newspapers, they were going to need it, otherwise the killer Bernardi might just walk.

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

 

Louis has books and stories on Smashwords. Many of them are free.

See his art on ArtPal.

Images. Stolen from the internet.

 

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