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

 

Louis Shalako has books and stories available from Amazon.

See his works on ArtPal.

Check out this story here.

Previous:

Chapter One, Scene One.

Chapter One, Scene Two.

 

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery, #9, Pt. 32. Louis Shalako.

...is it too late for the second act...???

Louis Shalako.

“So, what you are saying, is that you plan on knocking me on the head…somehow drugging me.” The thought had just occurred to him—the thoughts raced. “Yes. You didn’t even have to get it right. How could you know, whether I would be drinking cognac one day, wine the next, red or white, and perhaps a cold beer the next.”

All they had to do was to drug, or to poison every bottle.

“Or have you brought a syringe and a vial of something with you, in a side pocket…”

Schleicher stood there, actually lowering the knife.

“Go on, Gilles. I have always admired your thought processes.”

“Yes. Then, in one final insult, you cut off all of my fingers—and thumbs, and presumably, you have a way to take them away with you.” A baby-food jar, a small jam or jelly jar. “Then, you get to hack away at the face, which will no doubt give you much pleasure, perhaps even an erection. No one will doubt it was me, and yet, at the same time, no one will ever be able to prove, to really prove, that it was me. Really me. Yes, I have to congratulate you on your ingenuity. Quite frankly, the whole thing is pure genius.”

He went on—all those pockets, that big coat, he could see it all.

“A big handkerchief, gloves of course, and perhaps a bit of oilskin rag or something. You know, for the fingers and stuff. Yes, I see now. What else? A fucking suicide note? Even you would balk at that.”

“Oh, Gilles. Ha. I think we can rule out suicide.”

Schleicher set the bayonet on the far corner of the kitchen table, almost daring Gilles to dive for it, reaching into a deep side pocket.

He had a silenced pistol.

“I’m going to have to ask you to sit down, Gilles. Inspector Gilles Maintenon of the Sûreté, Special Homicide Unit.” There was a certain drawl in these words.

Gilles’ knees began to knock. He’s really going to do it, thought Maintenon, or, shoot him and have done with it. It was like he was cold, very cold. His hands shook and he couldn’t stop it. The bowels felt very loose—

He was playing for the last two minutes of his life.

And yet hope springs eternal. Almost anything could become a weapon, and he looked wildly around, for anything, almost anything at all would do—but there was nothing.

Schleicher, in no hurry, watched with a faint grin.

Nothing—a chair maybe, but they were so heavy—his eyes seized on the unbelievable.

Schleicher must have caught the look, the sudden intake of breath, and took a quick glance over his shoulder, where a purse hung off the back of the old maple spindle chair by the door.

He turned with a certain look on his face.

“Well. Looks like the lady’s forgotten her purse—she’s probably halfway home on the bus at this point…”

He raised the pistol.

He never did get to finish the sentence.

The pantry door had always had that low-pitched squawk, stemming from the fact that the house had settled a bit over the years. The frame was no longer square, and right up on the top corner of the door, the paint and even a bit of the wood was worn away…the door swung open, and Schleicher, somehow, who could not possibly know about the cat, spun on one heel to meet the threat...it was a moment frozen in time. Gilles, was frozen in time—

But Sophie, Sophie was already firing.

Gilles dove for the right rear corner by the back window, as bullets had a real bad habit of going through things and people and walls and tables, and he was next in line—he was the next guy up, right in the line of fire.

You couldn’t really blame her, of course.

***

Sophie: one can hardly blame her...

“Sophie.”

“Yes, sir.” Her jaw quivered and she looked about ready to cry.

Gilles was still shaky, but a little happier about things all of a sudden…he’d be hurting tomorrow, and the knee was definitely not so good. Even so. He was alive.

“Sophie?”

Sophie, standing over the body, gun pointed downwards at forty or more degrees, the weapon braced with the other hand in a classic shooting position.

“I’m sorry. I really should have said something.” She sobbed.

Finally, she managed to lift her chin and meet his eyes. She put the gun up. She must have seen that in the movies.

“Say what?”

“Well. It’s just that I saw—I mean, I have seen, this person in the neighbourhood. I don’t know, ah, Inspector. There was just something about them. Look at the clothes, for example.” She gave a quick shake, all over.

“Huh. Ah.” At arm’s length, Sophie put the weapon on a corner of the table, sort of pointing it off into the front room, not pointing at anything or anyone in particular. “It’s only been the last few days. They just kept turning up.”

She sobbed.

“…I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Sophie.”

“Yes, sir, well. I was going out one morning, and this person was right there, at the bottom door, and they were going the same way. It was creepy to have them right there, at my shoulder so to speak. And then.”

“And then?”

“…and then, an hour and a half later, there they were again.” She’d gone out for baguettes, milk, coffee, butter. “They were going in the same direction as before, and I wondered where they had been in the meantime.” She let out a long, shuddering breath. “No one else around here…no one else around here warrants that sort of attention, if that makes any sense…”

She’d been reading the papers, apparently.

She’d looked out the window, to see them idling about on the street below. It all just seemed off.

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She nodded.

“There’s more.”

“It’s all right, my dear. Just take your time.”

It seemed she had left for the day. Going down the stairs, still at the first landing, she’d seen a figure through the frosted glass and iron bars of the street-level door down below. She’d had the impression they’d been trying the door. Thinking furiously, she’d gone back to get Maintenon’s pistol. Then she’d gone out, stomping down the stairs and making sure to be heard—and indeed, there was this individual, a few metres away, pretending to look at a window display. It was a barber shop, and perhaps they were looking at the styles, a series of small posters up in the window, and something about the whole thing smacked as phony. The place had been closed since four-thirty or five, by this time.

There he was, looking weird...

He wavered on his feet, thinking. Thinking.

Just thinking.

The walls were thick, the floors strong, and the hallway doors were heavy. The windows were closed, at this time of night the neighbours were either out, or very much in, what with having an actual life—and a kitchen, newspapers, a radio, and friends, and relatives, and one or two kids over there as he recalled.

So far, no one was pounding at the door. That was about the least of his problems right now.

Four shots. Two, and then two again. Right into the centre of the body mass—right about where the heart ought to be, assuming a person even had one.

“If you don’t mind.”

She stood there, looking down at her feet and wringing her hands, and the tears flowed unabashed.

“Sophie. Why did you hang your purse right there?”

She was still showing a lot of white around the eyes…

“Oh, God. I don’t know. Just a habit, I guess.”

She’d gotten in through the far side, the left rear window, in what must have been a real inspiration. A neat trick, and with the creaky old iron fire escape under five or six centimetres of snow. His apartment was on the third floor, and it was pitch-black out there.

“Where’s your coat.”

She shrugged, matter-of-factly.

“It’s folded up, on top of the vegetable bins.” The pantry. “I was in there, sort of waiting…and it is a bit cool in there. But, the coat was just in the way.”

Her voice was low, hesitant, and she was about to begin blubbering again.

Hmn. There was nothing to say to that.

“So. You saw this person…you nipped back up and grabbed the weapon. Went back down…to let him see you were going home. Have I got that right? And then you went around the corner, through the alley, and up the fire escape.” No response.

Well, she would know if the window was unlatched or not, or maybe she had had the presence of mind to make sure on her way back out...

Sophie was in shock, and that part was understandable.

Gilles reached over and picked up the pistol, still warm from her hand. She’d put the safety on…she must have had some experience, either that or she had read all about it somewhere.

It seemed awfully intuitive…Sophie was nothing if not intelligent, perhaps even imaginative.

According to the serial number, it was his own weapon. A Beretta.

The one he kept in a drawer in his office. Of course, she must have come across it in her travels.

He’d have to ask her a little more about all of that, but first, she needed a chair and a drink of water or something. She needed a handkerchief, and he gave her one. She needed a little time, perhaps.

After that, Gilles needed to use the phone.

***

 

 

END

 

Chapter One.

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.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Images. Stolen, for the most part.

Louis has books and stories on Amazon.

See his works on ArtPal.

Check out The Chase.

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery, #9, Pt. 24. Louis Shalako.

It's a free bar, Gilles...

 Louis Shalako

“…it’s all right, Gilles, and I will understand if you can’t do it—”

“No, no, that’s fine.”

“Anyhow, Hector’s youngest will be doing the eulogy. A small, private affair, although one or two of us will be making an appearance.” Due to the news people, it might be better if he didn’t show up at all.

So far, Maintenon’s name had been kept out of the papers. That would only last so long.

“Yes, sir.”

“So here’s the thing. We get these complimentary tickets, they’re not addressed to anyone in particular. Public relations people do it all the time, sending them out all over the place in the hopes of attracting publicity, good reviews, or whatever.”

He cleared his throat, the internal line crisp and clear just this once.

“It’s not a costume ball, Gilles, and it’s not entirely a formal affair, although the master of ceremonies may be in, ah, tails, Gilles. No, just a suit and a tie—the food may be all right, and you can leave any time you want. No question of a speech, as far as I can tell—”

Gilles sighed, deeply.

“Very well, when is this—”

There were six tickets, according to Langeron, and he could dispose of them at his own discretion. As to whether Roger was going, that seemed unlikely.

“It’s the International Mystery Writers Guild, their annual awards banquet, and if nothing else, it’s a free meal—a few grip-and-grins with the attendees, eh, Gilles.” He was referring to photo opportunities…sweaty-handed fans, no less.

The whole thing stank to high heaven, as Roger put it, and yet it could still be the highest form of coincidence. A shitty little coincidence, and yet he felt it should be followed up.

His instincts were telling him all kinds of things, and Maintenon was forced to agree. It was better than doing nothing.

It was better than thinking like a Frenchman all of the time.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have that sent right over, Gilles. And thank you. I won’t suggest that you have a good time, because I suspect that isn’t going to happen…” There was a program, the whole thing should wrap up by midnight, assuming they could stick to any kind of a schedule.

Other than that, please try and keep an open mind.

Gilles glanced up, noting the clock and the fact that the room had quickly emptied.

Nothing is as painful as the clock.

And there it was.

Another drop-kick, le savate, right to the nuts.

Drowning in a sea of loneliness, we clutch at straws—Roger was a friend, in some odd way, some words that had never been expressed.

There was nothing to do but listen. It was one of his skills…a flashback, in real time. To a conversation he’d just had. We clutch at straws.

“What are you trying to tell me, Roger.”

“Well, it’s just the usual thing, Gilles. Except—except, this one feels different. It’s too much of a coincidence. We get this beautifully-written letter, all on official letterhead, and the fact is, it’s genuine. We had a junior officer check. It’s not addressed to anyone in particular, except the public relations department, and it’s not asking for anyone in particular. Other than that, it’s a handful of complimentary tickets, to the awards banquet of the Mystery Writers Guild International. They would be ever so honoured if someone would turn out, if not, please distribute these to friendly members of the press. One of whom might have been Hector. Er, not exactly the exact words, Gilles. It’s just an event. Which just happens to be held in Paris this year. Last year, it was Los Angeles, and the word is, next year, Tokyo is a strong contender…”

There was more, of course, there always was.

For one thing, Roger had his instincts, as he put it.

Roger has his instincts, as he put it...

***

There was a click and line was dead. Just like a lot of other things.

The thoughts, the thoughts, the lines, had tumbled over and over in his head.

He’d said something else that was interesting: they’d probably been doing it for years, the free tickets and everything, and yet there was no record of anyone ever attending. That being said, such things tended to get tossed in the wastebasket, glossed over without much thought.

***

“Mao…?”

“Ah, Sylvestre.”

The cat, lord of the manor and man of the house during normal, daytime hours, bored out of his skull and not exactly overworked on the mousing detail, sat in the hall doorway, and Gilles felt a moment of guilt.

Truth is, the cat hasn’t seen much of me lately—and that was just sad.

When he got home, the cat was there, the mail was there. A bill or two, with the due date, and almost indecipherable with the small charges, the hidden, bogus fees, and other sneaky stuff which he had taken to despising without actually doing much about it. One of these days, he would have to call these people; and give them a little piece of his mind.

The kitchen smelled like food, although Sophie had gone by now. He had the feeling that he had missed something, perhaps even lost something. People had to tell him everything twice these days, or so it seemed, before he got it—really got it.

What in the hell was wrong with him these days?

And the answer, surprisingly simple, was probably not much at all.

***

It was the morning after the day before.

“So. How do you want to play this?” Margot had one very good question.

“It is a request from higher authority. I can’t order anyone to do this.” Or won’t.

He stood regarding a handful of tickets to the ball on the scarred maple desk.

“I can, however, authorize the overtime.”

She pursed her lips on hearing that one.

By any examination, they were just like any other ticket, six of them numbered in sequence. No indication that they were freebies. In his experience, a doorman would hardly even look at them, and they might have been available not just from a box office but any number of other locations…his thoughts sort of raced. Mailed with a fairly generic letter from the public relations department, going out to all kinds of media outlets and useful elected fools, celebrities of one sort or another. There might have been quite a long list, just fishing, as it were. An equal number of programs, on thick, heavy paper, decoratively printed in some Art Deco, fin de siècle font…

All very convincing, and genuine as far as anyone could determine on short notice. And here it was again, one more line of inquiry, one more line of bullshit—one more big waste of time and resources. One more oar in the water, one more finger in the pie. One more cook, bent on spoiling the broth.

As Gilles put it bitterly enough.

“Hector would have gone.” Joseph—

Maintenon’s face hardened.

“Seriously, Gilles.” The little man went on. “Think of the opportunity—two fucking hundred Sherlocks, all in the same room. Him and his bag of cameras, shaking hands, talking to people, and listening. Really, really listening…”

The one skill that couldn’t be taught, but could only be learned.

And maybe even getting quite a lot out of it, as Joseph said…more than just a story and some pictures in a magazine.

“It’s an open bar, Gilles.”

Yes, Hector would have loved that. You could almost see the man at work.

Gilles nodded.

Roger had his instincts. It really did stink, didn’t it? Roger had suggested two things, one; wear a bullet-proof vest, and two, bring your own little pistol, as he had put it.

“Va te faire foutrez…”

Joseph threw his head back and laughed.

Margot nodded.

Margot would not miss it for the world.

“I’m in. Quite frankly, I would not miss this for the world.”

He had the feeling she meant it, too. Take one for the team, all of that sort of thing, and that was good to know as well.

“Think about it, Gilles. It’s a fucking party. They’re not asking for a speech. It’s not a costume ball, although at least some of them will be that dumb. It’s not a black-tie, fancy-dress ball, either. Just some fair-to-middling food, and that is a pretty good hotel as I recall.” Joseph, arms crossed and feet dangling from the chair.

Music, dancing, and a little light entertainment, all culminating in a rather prestigious awards ceremony—yes, he was lucky.

They had not asked him for a speech…

Gilles sighed, deeply.

“Well, that’s three of us, anyways.” He’d ask the others when they came in.

Some of them, any of them, all of them. Three more tickets.

“Wasn’t there a monkey in one of them old Conan Doyle stories?” LeBref had this look on his face, and Margot was openly laughing at him.

“Well, if that is what you think is best, Joseph…although you’ll have to get a move on, if you want to find a costume in time.” She winked one over his way.

Hell, even Gilles had to smile at that one. In the end, Joseph would do his job, as well as anyone else, and he was always a good man to have around.

How he handled it was his problem.

End

Chapter One.

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.

Chapter Twenty-Two.

Chapter Twenty-Three.

 

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

See his stuff on Fine Art America.

And here is the proverbial cooking blog, not updated all that recently.

 

 

Author’s note. I began this novel in 2020, wrote about 20,000 words, and then petered out, same thing again in 2021. When I started up again in late 2022, the novel stood about 39,000 words. Now it’s 46,000 and counting. I hope to finish the book this winter. Other than that, the initial spurt seemed a bit repetitive, but all of that sort of thing gets smoothed out in a hundred reads, re-writes, and just filling out the book after the author gets to the end of the plot. I have to know how it ends, and then if necessary, I can go back and throw in a clue, here and there, and hopefully make sense of it all in the end.

Thank you for reading.

 

#Louis