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.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

 

Thank you for reading. 

 

 

 

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

Louis Shalako

Their next stop was to Madame d’Coutu’s new place of employment, the result of some simple telephone work, and the lady would be expecting them at some point in the morning. For whatever reason, traffic was sheer hell this morning. It was halfway across town.

Good old Alphonse, sitting bored in the vehicle, had been listening with the radio actually turned up for a change, (rather than having it down real low and simply ignoring it), and had taken the call while they were inside the store. One more hit on their planted news story, and now they had another little errand on their plate. He had it all down in his own notebook, in writing that was surprisingly legible. Knowing Alphonse, he would have taken his sweet time with it.

Things were looking up.

And of course, Yvonne wasn’t too happy to see them. Truth was, they were late, and an appointment was an appointment. Real gentlemen would have been punctual above all else. For her, it was just so much bother, and she wasn’t shy about telling them that, either. She’d had one or two calls from the reporters, and she was still spitting mad about those people as she called them. It was also the height of embarrassment for an honest working woman to be visited by the police. Especially as her lady had been out all morning and had arrived home at exactly the wrong time and naturally, she had questions. One could only sympathize, not that it had done much good. For the working classes, to be out of work for any length of time would very shortly lead to personal disaster and naturally the police understood that. The dress was shapeless, the hair grey-brown and mousy, and there were lines around the eyes and the mouth. One wondered if she had smiled in days.

Hubert doubted if the lady had been out of work more than two or three days, what with having signed on with an employment agency and all. Still, one had to listen for a while out of politeness. Funny thing was, she seemed to have done all right with her current assignment, one wondered if she saw that much herself. Three times the size of Maintenon’s place, bright and airy and well-lit, the paint was the work of professional decorators rather than a mom-and-pop project. Hopefully, her current boss-woman wasn’t a real tyrant.

They were in the kitchen of a fine old flat, in a very fashionable part of the city, with the cook and the maid having made themselves scarce, and the lady of the house sort of fussing and fuming in the sitting room out front.

So far, she hadn’t been of much help, but then it had always been a long shot.

“Anyways. I’ve told you everything I know.” She was adamant, and her eyes strayed to the clock on the wall.

Having lost her previous employment, through no fault of her own and at some inconvenience to herself, she had only reluctantly given up the key to Maintenon’s apartment. The three of them were seated around the kitchen table…

Hubert, known for a certain charm of his own, was doing his best to soothe her down.

“Naturally we understand, Madame, and of course we understand your feelings…”

He patted her forearm and she snatched it away. It was all he could do, just to try again.

“Now, is there any little thing, any funny little detail, anything that might have struck you about those men, ah, that afternoon.”

“No. Not really.” She’d just taken her one-hour lunch break, gotten back to work on the dot of one o’clock, and she had been dusting and sweeping, just thinking about her shopping list, (and killing time strategically, or so he thought), when the knock had come at the door.

There was nothing new in any of this, it was all in the original report. It was time to call it a day with this one. Neither one of them had ever met the lady, and whatever ideas one may have had about the typical housekeeper, Yvonne had turned out to be a harried woman, old-before-her-time and with few skills and perhaps not too many friends. Unmarried, her only emotional outlet would be a cat and perhaps her sister’s children and grandchildren. That and a lot of knitting.

“Hmn. Okay. Would you mind taking a look at this photograph, please. Do you recognize any of the men in this picture.”

“Non.”

“Are you certain? Not even the slightest resemblance?”

She pursed her lips and shook her head.

Hubert picked a random face and brought it in a little closer.

“This man?”

She shook her head.

“Or this one?”

“No.”

“What about this one—” Monsieur Samaha.

Again, she said no.

“…or this one…”

“No.”

“Okay.” Taking a different tack, he mentioned that the cat, Sylvestre, was being well looked-after, and she made a face but said nothing.

The cat was no longer any problem of hers, and that seemed clear enough.

“Also, Madame, we have been wondering, well, if you have been paid, that is to say all caught up in terms of your employment at the Maintenon household…er.”

She flushed, went rigid, and then allowed that she had, in fact, been paid, in full, in advance, up to the end of the month by the inspector. This was before he went down south. Gilles hadn’t even been gone a week, but as soon as she’d heard the news, she had bolted for new employment.

“What would you have had me do?” Although she seemed a little nicer now, and the truth was, she might even owe Gilles a fair chunk of money in purely legalistic terms.

The lady didn’t actually come out and say that part, but it was a fair inference and no big revelation, personality-wise. It might explain her whole demeanour so far, what with having a conscience after all, a little touch of the guilt, and this in what could only be assumed to be a good Catholic. Especially if one got caught—

He nodded sagely, resisting the urge to try patting her on the arm again.

“Okay. Well, thank you, Madame, we will not waste any more of your precious time.” A thought struck him. “Normally, people would get severance pay anyways…and the circumstances are nothing if not unusual, right?”

He could see her consider it, latching on to it perhaps.

It wasn’t much of a surprise, really, but they’d had no option but to try her out.

He snapped the notebook closed, preparing to rise.

“There is one thing, though.”

“Oh? What’s that Madame.”

“It’s about the name on the coveralls. I distinctly remember now—it was Montgolfier Brothers.” She gave a firm nod and that was that—

Right up until the point when you realized she’d been lining the bottom of the birdcage, budgie-birds or parakeets, or something very much like that and quite musical…and that sure looked like a page from Le Temps in there.

It was hard to say if she was being deliberately obtuse, or maybe she was just genuinely stupid—she hadn’t mentioned Gilles by name in the entire time they’d been there, admittedly that really hadn’t been very long at all. It was like she had problems of her own and simply didn’t give a damn—

They clambered to their feet, repressing deep sighs or any expression at all.

Sometimes it was all one could do, but to remain polite, perhaps even gracious.

“Thank you, Madame d’Coutu. We are, of course, very grateful for your time.”

The poor woman had been alone in that kitchen, for at least some time, with a freezer full of dead people. That had to be taken into account as well—of course she had fucking well run for it, and who could blame her. It was perfectly understandable, and no shame in that. Except in the mind of the lady herself. It was a story she would tell and retell, and it would no doubt grow into something quite extraordinary over the years.

He really should have told her all of that, but, the problem was that the words just wouldn’t come out.

***

It was almost like they were getting somewhere.

“Yes, sir, we made the patches here. Montgolfier Brothers. They ordered a dozen patches, and paid cash up front. I’d never heard of them, we’ve never dealt with them, and they had no account. Our policy is clear on that.” Monsieur Renaud was the owner and manager of a very small factory, a sweat-shop, with about a dozen women at sewing machines in a loft on the eastern outskirts of the city. “A Monsieur Bisson. He came in person. A rather ordinary fellow, middle-aged, slight of build, average height and average weight. Well-dressed. A small mustache, hair fairly light but not real blond if you know what I mean…”

He thought further.

“Oh. Little round black glasses. The hair was combed straight up and over. I looked it up, that was about May twenty-first.” The gentleman had worn a hat, but he’d taken it off while coming in the door.

“Ah, I was just going to ask.”

The big, open room was on the top floor and very warm, although every window in the place seemed to be open. A fly buzzed here and there, curious and hungry, or maybe even just friendly, as Hubert brushed one off of the tip of his nose. The thing seemed to be in love with him—

He could feel the sweat all right, running down inside the shirt and he wondered how they did it sometimes.

The office itself was a glassed-in enclosure, where the employees were never out of sight, and neither was the boss. It was a little quieter in there with the door closed, with a fan to at least stir the air a little. Sewing wash-cloths and hemming hand-towels and fucking tea-towels for a centime apiece and things like that…cash paid daily, or so it said on a sign down below at street level.

No wonder the working classes were unhappy.

Without much hope, he pulled out the picture and let the man have a look at it.

“Do you recognize any of these men? Does anyone in particular look familiar? What about this one…or this one…or this one here…?” It was an old and familiar routine.

The gentleman took a moment to study it carefully.

“Ah, no. I’m afraid not.”

And in this particular case, not much joy to be had. It was routine police work, nothing more, nothing very exciting and not all that informative in terms of solving cases.

Perhaps sensing their disappointment, and wishing to be helpful, the gentleman spoke.

“Would you like to see how they are made?”

Apparently, they had an automated embroidering machine, which worked off of punch-card type templates and they could produce team and commercial patches in many fonts and sizes. These ranged from name patches on a mechanic’s work shirt to shoulder patches and breast patches, hat-badges, for police, fire, ambulance, sports teams and commercial enterprises all over the city. They could use any colour of thread, in any combination, and promised two-day completion on the smaller orders. The bigger the order, the steeper the discount. Custom design was a specialty.

Martin Garnier gave him a nod. What the hell, they had nothing to lose but time.

“Sure, why not. We’d be delighted.” Think of it as good public relations, or planting the seeds  tomorrow’s success today.

Not everyone was so willing to talk to the police and that sort of thing ought to be encouraged. It was a small place, the machine was right there, and it really didn’t take all that long. With an assistant, and at least one damned sharp mind, the pair had quickly thrown in a few steel letters in a particular font, changed a couple of spools of thread, cut a patch of flannel, a simple rectangle, clamped all that in place, and set the machine to work. They watched, open-mouthed, and finally, switching off, the fellow reached in with scissors, snipped a few extraneous threads, and pulled out a long, skinny patch, all set to be sewn on to a garment.

Montgolfier Brothers.

Nice.

The gentleman handed it over with a nod and a smile.

“And there you have it…”

“Thank you for the tour.” If nothing else, they had another pretty generic description of another suspect, and a name which would probably turn out to be bullshit. “I have to admit, that was all very interesting.”

They would have an odd little exhibit to show off when they got back to the room.

Martin wasn’t trying to be smart, but to see a little follower-thingy, a vertical rod on the end of an arm, tracing an outline on a row of steel templates on the one side, and the needles going up and down, tukka-tukka-tukka-tukka, around and around on a piece of fabric on the other side, and seeing the letters appear in three colours, as the whole apparatus sort of slid along on tracks above it; on a patch of felt, (or whatever), was fascinating enough in its own way.

At least he thought so—

It was all very illuminating.

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.

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

 

 

Thank you for reading. 

 

 

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

I know who you are.

Louis Shalako

And then there was the witch, or so Hubert thought of her.

This was only about five or ten kilometres up the road, only slightly into the hills, as he was beginning to think of them. Her name was Dolores, no one, not even the cops, seemed to know her last name. It meant sadness, as he recalled. Seeing a mailbox with the lid bulging, it was tempting to pull her mail for her…they might get a glimpse of a last name, but that would seem very presumptuous.

She was anything but sad, as it turned out.

If Maurice was a bore, this one was just plain mad.

Just barely off the road, the house was interesting enough from the outside, with a small gravelled spot out front for the vehicle. The walls were rough stucco in a dirty white, with a few vines growing on them here and there. The windows were small and heavily leaded in a diamond pattern, the door much less than two metres tall and made of bolted planks.

More chickens clucked from somewhere behind the building, it was like everybody around there had them.

Those bolts, ancient indeed, had been hammered out by a true blacksmith. The roof now, the roof was still thatched in straw and the resident sparrows were nothing if not busy and talkative. They apparently lived right in the straw, popping in and out as they went about their daily affairs.

Hubert had always kind of admired the sparrows, with their unrelenting cheerfulness, busy with life and not too worried about the problems of the world around them. If any creature could be truly said to be living in the moment, it would have to be the sparrows.

They hadn’t even knocked when the door opened and a wizened old woman was grabbing at LeBeaux’s elbow and practically dragging him in. She couldn’t have been much over one and a half metres tall.

“Oh, hello, boys, such nice boys—come in, come in.” She beckoned imperiously at Hubert, as LeBeaux bent a bit and went in before her. “Come in, come in, don’t be stupid.”

With a chuckle, he did just that.

And again, the interior was just plain…interesting.

“Coffee? Of course you’ll have coffee, such good boys—” She turned and bolted for the back room.

They stood there, looking around, noting a fireplace that could also be used for cooking judging by a spit and a handle to crank, a cast iron grate to keep stuff up from the actual coals, and then some impressive iron and polished copper wares lined up beside it on a small raised shelf of flat stones…mostly for show, thought Hubert. Unless she was cooking for ten hungry farmhands—

There were bookshelves, jammed to the tits, doors to other rooms to the left and a narrow staircase going up to the upper floor, where more light seemed to flood down from above into this end of the front room.

It was surprisingly clean, bright, and homey enough with a couch, chairs and a low table off to his right. Hubert had the impression the real kitchen was in the rear, and sure enough, she came out again with a tray and cups. The other rooms were additions, he concluded, the original house had probably been just this one room—one with an outhouse and a very small barn, or even just a shed out behind. All of that was long since gone, leaving just a sort of traditional cottage.

“Please, please, sit down, sit down—such nice boys.” Placing the tray on the table, she bustled out again.

LeBeaux grinned, nodded and took a seat on the end.

Hubert wasn’t quite ready for that. Coffee though, that was better than tea.

He sighed, deeply, and took an upholstered easy chair off one end of the couch and well into the room. One lump of sugar, no cream. One quick stir.

He sighed.

She came back with cookies or something on a plate, taking the other end of the couch.

“Well, isn’t this lovely. Simply charming. I really like your house—” LeBeaux, exercising some more of that cop-diplomacy, which really was a big part of the job.

“Oh, thank you, thank you. Such nice boys.”

Hubert nodded, about to chime in with the pleasantries, if only he could think of something...

“I know who you are, of course.”

He paused, and kept the mouth shut after all.

“Pardon, Madame?”

“Did that idiot Dampier tell you about my dream? I’ll bet he did. Gilbert’s not so bad. I do his wife’s horoscopes. She positively swears by them, and I have never steered her wrong.”

She sipped at her cup, and Hubert picked up his. LeBeaux seemed floored, sort of unusual for him.

“Why, no. Ah, what dream was that?”

And LeBeaux tossed him a grateful look.

Hubert was a pretty good partner, in the sense that he wouldn’t let you suffer too long—

But that last one took the cake, and on that note Éliott picked up his own cup, taking a closer look at the biscuits, and maybe even just listening for a while.

“They say you’re a witch, don’t you know.” Hubert, eyes all innocent, sipped at his coffee, which was very good. “As for the dream, half the town has probably heard about it by now, why don’t you tell us all about it.”

“What? Who says? Ha. Of course I’m a witch, it’s what I do, for crying out loud.” Her eyes glittered in a kind of contempt. “Anyways, it’s none of their business, is it.”

Hubert laughed right along with her, in what was only the second time this week.

As for LeBeaux, it was nothing if not educational.

As bad as Maurice had been, this one was about as crazy as a shit-house rat.

***

Fucking hermits. A bit worn, but a collector's item. 

Then there was their hermit—

Finding the gentleman in question had involved a roundabout route, leading up, over and around, right past their original farm gate and the way into the fishing hole. Rather than going over hill and down dale, the road followed the terrain, contour lines as they were called, switching back and forth, keeping the gradients low, only to draw up before another gate, a good two kilometres further up the road. There was a post, with a sign that said No Trespassing.

On the other side of that gate, which was locked anyways, the road or track was very rough, overgrown, with branches and leaves hanging over from both sides. The actual road gave the impression of an archway into some kind of green hell…and the biting insects were becoming very interested indeed.

They were out for blood, no kidding.

“Ah.” LeBeaux slapped at a bug on his neck. “Fuck. What are these things.”

“Ah, mosquitoes, I believe.” Virtually unheard-of in Paris, they had waved off the purchase of insect repellent at the time, thinking they were burning money, which was true enough—but that might have been a mistake.

They had their hiking boots, and their little back-packs—

They were keeping all the receipts.

“Well. Here we go again.”

The roof was up, the windows were closed and the doors were locked.

“Yeah, we’re going, all right.”

According to Dampier’s little hand-drawn map, the path was a good seven or eight hundred metres, whereupon they would come to a cliff-face, and then they would turn right and follow that along, to what was described as a cliff-dwelling—whatever the hell that meant.

Familiar enough, when the cold weather really hit, the typical Parisian would take on that jerky, stiff-legged walk, speeding up and just trying to get where one was going without freezing to death in the meantime, and this was similar but different. With the woods wet, warm and windless, to stop was to tempt fate, the fate of being bled to death by a million hungry little bugs. To slow down, was to encourage them, to be followed by hundreds of the things. As it was, they were just speeding along…jerkily, stiff-legged and trying not to trip over picker-bushes and long, trailing canes of something that still had a few blue-black berries on it.

It was all they could do to keep going, to hope for a clearing, some sunlight, some kind of a stiff breeze would have been helpful. The little buggers would be most active at dusk and dawn, but up here, daybreak would come late. With the peaks surrounding and the trees close on both sides, with every leaf and blade of grass literally soaking in the dew, and still a suggestion of mist between the trees, proper daylight might not penetrate for another hour or so, and then only for a short little while.

All the while, with the humidity causing a good sweat, and the constant climb of the trail, it was enough, eventually, to take one’s breath clean away. This one was uphill all the way.

“Whew. Jesus.” Hubert paused for a good look.

“Well, there’s the cliff.” With rocks splitting off due to winter frost and simple erosion, there was at least an open space where the trees were smaller, there was no underbrush, although the walking was not so good on the rubble-strewn slope at the base.

“I hear chickens.”

It was just around the next turn of the cliff, and the view opened up some more, and there it was.

“Unbelievable.”

***

Éliott had a point. Somehow, someone had created a hovel, with planks and logs for a sloping roof, covered in sod or maybe just dirt…there were fitted stones piled up for a front wall. It couldn’t have been two and a half metres wide; three at the most. There was one small tiny window, and a short door, and the thing had taken advantage of a cleft, a place where the mountain had sort of split apart and left just enough space. There was a rusty pipe sticking up for a chimney. One had to wonder where the inevitable water, the run-off was going, or how there didn’t seem to be any…perhaps the place had its own running water, a natural spring…again with the history lesson, but some of these places might go back centuries, back to the heretic Albigenses or what-nots, according to him. People could hide out for a long time, as long as they kept an ear out and were prepared to bolt at a moment’s notice, or so he said.

“That might have even been here seven or eight hundred years ago. So now you know.”

Hubert stood staring, as two or three chickens clucked and buk-bukked a few metres from the door. Tame enough, perhaps a little wary of the actual woods, where foxes might be a threat, there was a kind of box up on stilts which he took to be where they roosted for the night, and laid their eggs sort of thing.

“Are you sure you don’t mean the Cathari—” Where the hell that one came from, Hubert would never know, but the blank stare was reward in itself.

“What? What? Oh.” LeBeaux tore himself back to the present reality— “Hello. Hello—is there anybody home?”

The door opened a crack and one eye peered out.

“Who the hell are you?” The voice, was harsh and grating. “Fuck off.”

The voice of the true curmudgeon, thought Hubert.

“We’re police officers. From the Sûreté. You’re not in any trouble, ah, sir. It’s just that we’d like to speak to you, sir, it’s about an important matter.”

“Go to hell. Go away—”

"Fuck off. Punks!."

The impression, was of a craggy face, eyebrows, or at least one eyebrow, shaggy and white, with an even shaggier head of thin hair and a bedraggled mustache, a horrible little beard, on a lined face that hadn’t been shaven in a month or more...

“Sir—” LeBeaux stepped back, running into Hubert who had just taken a step forward. “Whoa.”`

The muzzle of a shotgun, poking out through the crack of the door was unmistakable.

“Get the hell out of here. Punks.”

Closing his mouth, a chastened Éliott LeBeaux had his hands up, and slowly backed away from the door, careful with his feet so as not to trip himself up...it wouldn’t take much and the fellow would shoot.

The door slammed shut and the curtains twitched behind that grubby little window.

“Well. I’d say that went pretty well.” Hubert snorted. “Fuck, let’s get out of here.”

They still had a few names on that list, and there was still a little time left in the day.

If they were lucky, they could still make the last train out although that seemed more and more unlikely with every passing minute.

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.

 

Louis has books and stories available from Google Play.

See his #superdough blog.

Thank you for reading.