A Stranger In Paris, Pt. 13. An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9. Louis Shalako.

...don't forget the matches...

 

 

Louis Shalako

A brief stop at the tobacconists. Don’t forget the matches, it was right at the top of his shopping list…and he didn’t. Up two flights of stairs. Pausing at the door, fishing for his keys, it seemed as if she had heard him on the stairs as the lock rattled and she opened up.

“Ah, thank you.” She must have had damned good hearing—another thing sometimes wasted, along with youth itself, upon the young.

Laden as he was, she took the bags to the counter beside the sink, and Gilles gratefully took off his shoes and hung up the coat and hat, damp now that the rain was back. The bottoms of his feet felt very damp. He really did need new shoes, these ones were all loosened up in the stitching between uppers and soles. In spite of all of that…

The cat was there, and the smell of coffee permeated the room.

All in all, life was good, and he didn’t have to be back until Monday morning.

And if you are lonely when you are all alone, then you are in bad company. Sartre—and a not very comforting thought.

***

It was almost with a sense of contentment that he rose, bathed, shaved his cheeks, neck and under his chin, and had a light breakfast, mostly consisting of hot, black coffee. And still only four hours until dawn, at this latitude, or was it longitude.

Dressing in a clean but unremarkable suit, he had greeted his driver Alphonse, on the street in front of his house, as usual, with a cheerful grunt and a fresh cigar. It was still pitch black, and damp all round but not actually raining…yet.

It was a ten-minute drive, the streets mostly empty at this hour but getting busier.

Mounting the stairs to the top floor, housing other departments, some of them obscure indeed, Gilles entered the Special Homicide Unit.

Inspector Gilles Maintenon, Proprietor.

His coat had a funny smell, and, it was heavy and damp, although the morning was looking better. At least so far. He stuck his hand in his left coat pocket, for no particular reason, and there it was.

A scrap, or rather a sheet, a small sheet of paper, ruled in blue with red ones as well, just like a page torn from a school-kids exercise book.

There were names. Names on a list.

It was the first three names that got to him.

He stood there with his mouth hanging down.

“Gilles?”

He proffered the paper to Andre.

Hanging up his coat, he uttered a deep sigh and looked to the coffee pot.

“Jesus.”

“Ah, yes, Andre”

***

“…the first three names have been crossed off.”

“Yes.”

“And they correspond to the names of our victims…so far.” Bearing in mind one had returned from the grave, and another may have simply skipped for South America—or the Levant, or West Africa, perhaps.

Maintenon’s first thought was that it was a joke, but by whom? And why? He’d only gone out the one time over the weekend, and he was fairly certain that it hadn’t been there on the Friday before. One of the things men did, for men were ruled by a certain unconscious routine, was to empty their pockets of all of those bulky and inessential things, which while they might be absolutely vital outside of the home, during the working or business day, things which made life uncomfortable—the bulky wallet, habitually carried in a hip pocket had caused more than one problem of pain and stiffness in the hips. This problem was worse for drivers and those consigned to long periods behind a desk, on a hard maple chair, which, for better or worse had taken its Godforsaken place as the institutional chair of the modern age…

His second thought had been Tailler—and the man, a rather strange man, as he now conceded, at the market.

“Schleischer, eh?”

“Von, Schleischer.” There was a certain emphasis. “How in the hell you spell that, is entirely up to you.”

Tailler grinned.

“Yes, they really are like that.” The title, the pedigree, was precious and they never let one forget it.

He grimaced.

Emile Tailler...

 

“Sorry, it doesn’t ring any bells. And all dressed up like…like Sherlock Holmes, you say?” Tailler gave a quizzical grin and a faint shake of the head.

“Yes. I really can’t think of any other prospects. I did not take a bus or the Metro. No one brushed up against me in the street—” As police officers, they were all too aware of the problem of petty crime, pickpockets being the scourge of the streets these days.

It was the economy, stupid, as some were fond of saying.

“It sure as hell wasn’t Sophie.” He clarified. “Er, my new housekeeper. She starts this morning, although we went through the place Saturday. I mean, she had the opportunity, one supposes, but why?”

Interestingly enough, he’d left before her arrival. This was why she had a key after all. But in order to stick a piece of paper in a man’s pocket, it was hardly necessary to take employment in their household. He laid it out for Emile.

“And you said he had a German accent.”

“I am beginning to wonder about that. I knew he wasn’t British, in spite of the get-up. And yet—yet.” It was only now, that he was having second thoughts. “Once I had decided that he was German, I never even gave it a second thought.”

Yet the man had never came out and stated directly that he was with the German Embassy. That had been an assumption on Maintenon’s part. He’d only said he was the cultural attaché. He never said he was German, and even if he had, it could be a lie. Yes, Maintenon’s head, it was going around and around, and that would no doubt continue.

“…at the embassy.”

He suppressed a growl.

The boss had been had, and didn't like it very much.

"Merde. That should have been a clue. Quite frankly, I wish I would have paid more attention.”

That…that costume, seems to have worked, just as it had undoubtedly been intended to work, to allay any suspicions that a high-ranking police officer would have had, should have had, when presented by someone claiming to be a fan…cops had fans, of course, which was often enough to set off one or two alarm bells about the individual in question. Mostly just losers, of course—

Tailler nodded.

“Sorry, Gilles, but we can’t be on, all the, er, fucking time.” No, the Boss had been had, and of course he didn’t much like it.

Gilles fiddled with his pen. He was supposed to be a professional, and he’d missed all the details.

“I think his eyes were blue, the hair kind of light, but not corn-silk fair, if you know what I mean. He was tall, well-built, and well-spoken. There were a few vehicles nearby, mostly small farm lorries, delivery vans and the like, but I honestly couldn’t say, if he got out of one, or even got into one. I was just sort of grateful to break off—under the circumstances.” He shook his head. “No, I was more interested in the tomatoes—bah.”

“Just to be totally specific.”

“Okay. Six-foot or more. Say a hundred and eighty-five centimetres, six-foot one or two. Eighty-five to ninety kilos. Close to two hundred pounds. Shoulders…not quite as big as Andre’s—”

The man in question looked up from his work, but then his eyes dropped back.

“So, you’re saying athletic? Good upper-body strength?”

“Yes, all of that. Perhaps. But it’s just that plenty of taller men have shoulders that sort of appear quite narrow, when on a shorter man they would be, shall we say, more substantial. This guy’s shoulders didn’t slope. They stuck straight out. That sort of makes them more impressive.” He thought. “Taller than our victims, I would say.”

“And the eyes?”

“Let’s call them pale, blue rather than grey. Nothing really remarkable there.”

“And clean shaven.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I can ask my people. But we usually have a pretty good handle on the personalities, names and faces employed at all the various embassies.” Some of which were of very great interest these days.

“Ah. What about the voice?”

“Hmn. Deep, but not too deep. Not harsh, or grating, or gravelly, like a smoker?” A smooth, deep voice, fairly cultured was the impression Gilles had gotten.

A confident voice.

“The walk.”

“Again. Nothing distinctive, like a limp. No, the impression was one of fitness, but also not in any real hurry…” Gilles trailed off, trying to recall. “Hmn. Definitely a good, strong grip.”

There was nothing else.

“Gilles. Your English, your German, is better than mine, but. Schleischer?”

“Hmn. Yes. Slasher—it is rather suggestive.”

The pair regarded each other over the files, the folders, the ashtray and the telephones set on Maintenon’s desk. Emile Tailler was relaxed, shoes clean and shiny, narrow shoes, and looking quite prosperous in clothes more suited to a very successful businessman, as opposed to a plain-clothes officer. They were not generally known for their sartorial splendour. He idly picked a bit of something off of a trouser leg.

“Is that even a real German name?”

“That, mon ami, is your department.”

The rain, having held off overnight, began again, its steady splatter almost, but not quite, drowning out the doves who crowded the eaves and orbited the building in their fast-flying flocks. With a bit of thunder on the horizon, they would be a bit restive, and who could blame them.

Tailler rose.

His eyes found the offending bit of paper on Gilles’ desk.

A dozen names, and three of them crossed off.

His own copy, tucked into a slender case, the locks turned and with nothing much more to be said.

“All right. I will get right on it.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod at the other officers, hunched over desks and telephones and typewriters, photographs, finger-print cards and files, he grabbed his coat, put on his hat, and headed for the door. He paused, as if on a thought.

“Gilles.”

“Yes?”

“What did you say that girl’s name was?”

Maintenon’s face darkened.

“Yes. I suppose we must.” Merde. “Sophie. Sophie Valliere.”

She had showed up for work, which proved nothing...

The family didn’t have a phone, but she only lived a few blocks away, and public phones were on every second block these days. He took a scrap of paper and copied it out from his personal address book. Paris was like that, his own neighbourhood was relatively prosperous, and just down the road, real poverty. Sometimes there were great disparities, from one street, from one block, even from one building to another. Sometimes even in the same building—all of those garrets, all of that misery, and yet someone still had to own the place.

“Don’t worry, Gilles. Just a precaution.” His eyes glittered, but this was more like real police work.

The criminal intelligence branch rarely had it so easy. If anyone owed Gilles a favour, he did.

“See you, later, people.”

His own office was at the other end of the building and there was much work to be done.

As the door closed, Gilles reached for the phone.

He dialled a familiar number, heart thudding a bit, but he just had to know.

“Allo?” There was a faint whistle in the background.

She had put the kettle on…she’d taken off her coat, hung up her hat, and put the kettle on, just like Madame Lefebvre, for all of those years before. She had, hopefully, locked the door, standard operating procedure for women of any age, working alone in almost any household—let alone the home of a senior police official, and one fairly famous by this time.

Gently, ever so gently, he put the phone down.

Sophie had at least shown up for work.

Which proved exactly nothing, after all.

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.

 

Louis has books and stories on iTunes.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Check out the #superdough blog.

 

Thank you for reading.

 

 

 

A Stranger In Paris, Pt. 12. Louis Shalako.

Oh, dear. One must choose, of course--but can she cook.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Louis Shalako

Earlier, Gilles had interviewed his first prospects for a housekeeper. He had the appointments all lined up, and had come home early from work, something of a rarity for one such as he.

He glanced at the clock. Sylvestre was asleep, apparently, heavy and warm in his lap and the rain really was pounding down now.

He looked at the phone, but it was already too late—

Or maybe he was just getting old, but no. It really was late for a business call.

This was a decision to be made, and yet not one to be taken lightly.

The trouble was, almost anyone would do, and yet, with multiple choices, one had to make a decision. Surely, he could interview others. It would inevitably be a very small number, and yet he had felt out of his depth. Such a simple thing, and yet he had floundered. It also took time, more precious time. He didn’t have much of that these days, and his off time was exceedingly precious.

While he didn’t much care what people thought, the youngest one, and thoroughly attractive, might not be a very good idea. She had experience, and yet it was with a young family…poor old Gilles was a different kettle of fish. That one might not be much of a cook, but then she wouldn’t have to be. Simply doing most of the scut work might have been enough in her previous employment. Doing endless loads of laundry, and keeping the children quiet, and amused, might have been enough. Running a broom about the place on some daily basis might have been enough.

Then there was the oldest one. Madame had no family of her own, or not much of one. Madame Lefebvre, his old housekeeper, had been the matriarch of quite the brood of her own. She came in, did her job, took his money, gratefully enough, and then she went home.

He wasn’t looking for a butler, and that was for sure—for that reason, he hadn’t interviewed any males. Perhaps it was a kind of chauvinism…truth was, with unemployment running high, a man, any man, might be forgiven for seeking domestic work. It might be a pretty soft touch, as compared to some of the alternatives, digging ditches for example. As far as the pay, they could do better elsewhere, as he had to admit.

Even so, it was his house—and his prejudices mattered in some way. It was his money, as the saying went. One must also assume such prejudices on the part of other males, which sort of made the ones that did apply, sort of suspicious. Looking for an easy touch, maybe. Or maybe they were just unfit for other work, which was not exactly a glowing recommendation.

Gilles wasn’t so much looking to be adopted by someone who might well be a lonely old spinster. Perhaps even a little desperate, not that he didn’t feel for the elderly females, too many of whom ended up in a little garret somewhere subsisting on bread, cheese curds and water and little else.

All alone, no way to change the outcome. Nowhere to go, and no one who cared.

He shook off the guilt.

His turn would come soon enough…

Then there was the middle one. It was unlucky. If three really competent prospects had come along, he might have pulled a name from a hat and lived with the results. As it was, he could either keep looking or perhaps the decision had already been made…

He would figure that one out tomorrow.

***

Fuck. It's all up to me now.

In the end, it was Sylvestre who had made the choice.

Maintenon had, while seated on the toilet of all places, recalled the reactions to the cat, as varied as the individuals in question. The oldest lady, Madame Denis, had made a face and, admittedly gently, shooed the animal off of her chair, before brightly looking up at Maintenon, about to begin his first interview.

The middle-aged lady, Madame Toussaint, had simply ignored the animal, during this interview, now laying on the back of the couch. She must have been aware of it, one must assume—

The cat was not much interested in these goings-on, even though the two of them had been alone in the house for what, in the end, had dragged on for two or three months—possibly even longer when he put his mind to it.

Ah, but Sophie—he had already decided not to call her Mademoiselle, for surely she was a grown woman in her own right. Sophie Valliere, young, strong and healthy, had gone straight to the cat, perhaps a little nervous, and then taken a seat, cradling the heavy fellow in her lap and answering Maintenon’s questions with half a smile on her face. Sylvestre had cheerfully submitted to this treatment, and had sort of curled up and waited for a belly-rub, although there was definitely a sting in that tail if one went too far with such familiarity. Gilles had the scratches to prove it, many of them over time, but she’d emerged unscathed.

If she could handle it, Gilles could—he had never been a lecher, and while attractive, and while she was dressed up, but it was also fairly sensibly. Truth was, a bit of youth in the place might be just what was needed, and of course, that was one important animal. Gilles wouldn’t have parted with him for a thousand francs, and when he had told her that, a genuine laugh, perhaps the first laugh heard in that room in months, should have been enough to convince.

No, it was the cat that had made the decision.

Normally, Madame Lefebvre hadn’t come in on weekends, but Gilles only had the weekends off and damned few of them, sometimes, when crime was raging and the bodies were piling up and that was just the way things were for someone in his position.

He’d figured it out.

Sophie would get four hours, first thing Saturday morning, and this would be busy enough. It wasn’t a question so much of training the young woman, as basically letting her get a feel for the place, the man, and what her job might entail. She could have an afternoon off later in the week.

He’d left her with the cat, going through the cupboards and making a list.

As for himself, he’d gone to the market to get a few essentials. While he could eat at a restaurant any time, what with a pretty good salary, and money in the bank, he had been rapidly running out of ideas, or perhaps that was just enthusiasm.

Dining alone, a little too often, had lost its attraction.

As for when he was home, man does not live on bread alone—and as for tins of sardines, while Sylvestre might be happy to live on that until the end of time, Gilles had had enough. That also applied to jars of pickles, olives, and tins of watery soup and jars of baked beans. It especially applied to weevily old bisquits.

Enough was enough.

***

While he could have gone to the corner store, he needed a walk and the open-air market had the benefit of fresh air and a crowd. There were times when people, just plain people, really helped.

One brief shaft of golden sunlight helped…

Perhaps he was just old and lonely—of course he was.

Gilles had just been fondling the tomatoes. Perhaps not the best word, but he really didn’t squeeze them, rather it was a matter of weight, feel, and yes, whether or not the thing seemed squishy at all. A tomato had to be firm and hard, in order to properly slice it. Cutting thin slices from a squishy tomato was the worst of all—

“That was a wonderful speech.”

“Huh?” A tall man stood beside him, dressed like an Englishman…

Sort of. The accent was from somewhere else.

“Sorry.” The man extended a hand, and Maintenon allowed his own hand to be shaken. “Yes. Yes, Inspector, I was there.”

He didn’t know this man from Adam, as the saying went.

“Von Schleischer.” He clicked his heels. “Anton.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The head bobbed in the incongruous deer-stalker hat. The cape, or rather the classic Macintosh, swirled in the stiff breeze as Gilles stood there at a loss.

He wore gaiters, a sort of golf or walking trews, and sturdy walking shoes. The only thing missing was a walking stick. The breeches had little slits at knee-level, one on each side of the knee, and little straps going through the cuffs...

All set for an athletic and sort of very hearty walking on the moors—the only thing missing was a ruddy complexion and a really big dog. And some moors to walk upon—

“Er.”

“Yes. Well, I was there at the commencement. Oh, you probably don’t remember me. I was sitting on the end of the second row, way over…on your right, it would be.” Not exactly a guest of honour, but invited, nevertheless, all part of the job as he put it.

“Ah.”

“Yes. Well. It’s a real privilege to meet you. You’re are quite famous, you know, even outside of France. I have always loved mystery stories.” He gave a self-deprecating gesture. “As you can see.”

Gilles had always regretted that particular magazine story. Never, ever, let your hair down. Good advice, if one could take it.

“Ah, yes. I have to admit, Sherlock Holmes was a big part of my, er, youthful reading.”

Under the blankets, at night, with a flashlight, which, as often as not, got him into trouble as it was strictly for emergencies, and if one was unlucky, might be conspicuous by its absence in the kitchen drawer—every kitchen had that one drawer, where all of those things that did not belong anywhere else, inevitably went. Then again, there was always the light, that glimmer under the door and one his parents had quickly learned to interpret.

“I am cultural attaché at the embassy here in Paris.”

A German dressed like an Englishman.

“Oh.”

“Quite frankly, it was a nice change. Your talk, I mean. Honestly. I have seen more chorale groups, more ballet recitals. The little ones are as cute as all hell, of course…more clog dancers from Brittany, really, than I ever would have imagined when I decided to enter the diplomatic service. Still, I am in Paris—”

“Quite so, quite so.”

They stood there looking at each other.

“Anyways, well. I won’t ask for your autograph. I’m not quite so bad as all of that.”

There was another pause as Gilles let the man have a small grin.

“Thank Heaven for small mercies.” It just came out and the man laughed.

“I really am a fan, you know.”

Clapping Gilles on the arm, the tall German nodded, and then turned away.

Now, what the hell was all that all about, he wondered. The side flap of his left coat pocket had somehow become tucked in, when the weather dictated that it should be out, and he absently pulled it out before turning again to the tomatoes and the patient old woman behind the stall, looking out on the world with a pair of sad, wise old eyes.

That one had seen a lot in her time on this good Earth.

END

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Gilles keeps an MAB 7.65 around here and I think we might need it.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

 

Louis has books and stories on Smashwords. Some are always free.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Check out his audiobook.

 

Thank you for reading.