Excerpt # 2, Maintenon and the Golden Dragon.

Louis Shalako

Gilles let Levain drive, as was his usual habit.

His tired mind was definitely elsewhere these days, thought Andre. He had a full life of his own, both on the job and at home with Nichol and Maelys.

The Inspector was quite a few years older. Gilles had been yanked out of bed in the middle of the night, handed a tough case and there was probably a lot more to it than that.

He must be terribly lonely at times. He was also the best there was, although there may have been some personal regard, factoring into that equation.

There was nothing anyone could really do about it and that was just the pure, un-distilled truth.

“Where are we going, Andre?”

“Ah, the Hôtel-Dieu, Gilles.” With a victim such as Banzini, perhaps that was just as well.

It was big and modern and they had all the best equipment.

People would want to know that every effort had been made to save Monsieur Banzini.

There was a long silence, the background hiss of the tires and the rumble of the motor almost reassuring.

“Very well.”

“Are you all right, Gilles?”

“It’s just that I’m tired. Very, very tired.” He turned to his partner of some years. “I’ve got one of those fuzzy little headaches that just won’t quit. Among other things.”

Andre switched off the car. The great thing about an official car was that you could park just about anyplace.

“Well, here we are, anyways.”

***

It was very quiet, this deep into the building. There was the faint sound of water dripping from a nearby sink unit.

(Paul Roletschek.)

On his internship, Doctor Emile Adam was very young, and very tall. He had spectacles and a thick head of stiff black hair that had been professionally trimmed only that morning. There were hints of white flesh edging the winter tan, around the short side-burns and the line along the back of the neck. 

The gentleman might be a skier, or something, in the out-of-doors. There really wasn’t much golf going on in November…

There was no question as to his intelligence or his competence.

He had Banzini laid out on an operating table, as he’d be going to the morgue and Doctor Guillaume for the autopsy.

“Vital signs were all gone when we got him. Ah…and. If you gentlemen will look just here…”

Open-mouthed, Gilles and Andre bent over the table, Maintenon reaching into a breast pocket and pulling out a pair of thin, black-rimmed spectacles.

“Wow.”

Biting his lip, Maintenon could not help but agree.

“We’ll leave Doctor Guillaume to remove this.”

“I quite agree—but I must tell you that I did pull it out, about as far as you see—” The dart, for surely that’s what it was, had been gripped by the doctor’s forceps and pulled out about ten or twelve millimetres. “It was embedded, practically flush with the surface of the clothing.”

He’d withdrawn it, just enough for him to see that this was not normal.

This was clearly no accident.

This was clearly homicide.

Even Doctor Adam could see that.

“Merde.” Maintenon tipped his head.

It was too late to go back and do it again—

“Write your report, doctor, in the most precise terms possible.” He gave Andre a look, receiving a shrug in return.

“I’m terribly sorry, I know I shouldn’t have touched it.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

(Paul Roletschek.)

Maintenon shook his head as Andre straightened up. On a thought, Andre began looking for the pockets of the deceased or attempting to. Baffled by the costume, he gave up. There weren’t any pockets to go through, which sort of brought this one home to him. Hopefully his personal effects would be coming along at some point—it was already a case of too many cooks.

Hmn. Killed on stage in front of a packed house.

With a fucking blow-dart.

Ha!

Ha.

This one was looking like a real doozie.

“Don’t say it, Andre.” Maintenon stood there, thinking. “Don’t even think about saying it. Ah, shit. But. I wouldn’t worry too much about it, Doctor Martin. I must say, I’m impressed.”

His eyes flicked up from Banzini’s bland, well-fed face to the doctor’s troubled features.

The doctor shrugged.

“Honestly, I really am sorry. I was just a bit slow on the uptake.”

Gilles clapped the fellow on the shoulder in sympathy.

“I meant the killer.”

Levain’s eyebrows twitched.

Poor old Maintenon was sounding, and looking, better already.

***

Doctor Adam stood there, never having had a chance to observe homicide detectives so closely before.

Certainly none as famous as Maintenon. The hulking figure at his side was Levain. Yeah, you wouldn’t want to mess with that one…sacré merde.

“Look at that costume.” Heavily embroidered and very colourful, the small brown tuft of fibrous material sticking into the gentleman’s ribcage had gone unnoticed.

“I suppose it’s no wonder. Shit—all those people tramping all over the place.”

Levain was taking a few notes.

“He was also laying face-down.” That might, conceivably, have pushed the dart home if it wasn’t there already.

Gilles looked up at the doctor.

“All right. Are you on shift for the rest of the night?” He checked his watch.

One-forty-five a.m.

Merde.

“Yes. I go off at six-thirty or seven.”

“Good. I’m going to call Doctor Guillaume. Monsieur Banzini could cause quite the problem for us. There must be a dozen reporters already camped outside the building. They don’t know anything, and I’d like to keep it that way. I’ll have him get over and get the body out of here as soon as possible.”

“I’m attending to the emergency room tonight. I really don’t have time—” Doctor Adam gulped. “Don’t let them in my hospital—”

Doctor Adam kept looking at his watch, they were lucky it was a slow night. He’d been away too long already.

They could lock him in the cooler, and wait for Guillaume’s assistants. No time to babysit a corpse for them. The police and hospital security staff had their hands full.

“Andre. Get on a phone and get some more officers over here. Two or three, anyway.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

“Very well.” Gilles hung up the phone.

With Inspector Martin on the scene, everything would be thoroughly documented, sealed off, scoured for clues by technical staff. The building would be guarded by twenty men if that’s what it took—and it probably would.

Some of that could wait until morning. The Palais was a huge and complex building. It would be better if they knew where to start. The dart had not been fired from the boiler room, essentially.

There was also the challenge of the next performance, which was tonight. Police would have little choice but to let it go on.

Due to the lateness of the hour and the social status of their mob of opera-goers, officers on scene had gotten a list of names. There were only a couple of hundred of them. The bulk of the audience had simply bolted, streaming past the two officers, tagging along on an ambulance call, who had initially responded to the sudden death of Largo Banzini.

They were going to have a hell of a time with them.

Box seats were registered. Corporate guests would be authorized—known, at least.

Most tickets were sold anonymously over the counter, although there were also reserved tickets. They would have names for them. If Madame Poincaré was any indication they (the so-called witnesses), wouldn’t be of much use anyway.

Gilles Maintenon sighed deeply. With the scene secured, the body secured, it would be extremely wise to go home and try and get a few hours of sleep. Hopefully he would think of something…

He looked around, but Andre was nowhere to be seen.

Gilles didn’t quite know where to begin looking, so he just stood there in the hallway of the emergency section of the Hôtel-Dieu.

“Damn it.”

Levain had the car-keys and Gilles was strongly tempted to call a cab and just go.

***

How the hell he did it sometimes was a mystery. Three and a half hours sleep if he was lucky…

Andre didn’t feel all that bad, although a couple of more long days might take care of that.

Nichol had been so warm, inclined to cuddle a bit this morning and he’d had to drag himself away.

Strutting in late for work, a big smile on your face, was a strict no-no.

Hopefully he would be home on time for once—not that that seemed too likely. She had definitely been in a bit of a mood, lately—

Which was fine with him.

Andre leaned on the buzzer and Maintenon’s voice came back immediately.

“Wait.”

“Yep.”

Andre had the car idling at the curb. The November sunshine was welcome after days of cold rain and even a bit of frost in outlying areas first thing in the morning. That’s what it said on the radio. 

There was a crunch when people stepped on a dead leaf. There were a few small shiny patches of ice, and people were beginning to sand their steps and the walks in front of their houses. In that sense, winter had arrived. The only thing missing would be a few flurries and a bit of snow.

The streets were busy, with Christmas coming up. People tended to huddle indoors when the weather was bad. When the weather was fair, they bolted for the nearest grocer’s or butcher shop. They got a few things done while they could.

Then there was the whole Christmas-shopping madness.

Less than three minutes had passed, and the door opened up. Maintenon seemed to have taken a bit of trouble with his appearance today, which was good.

There were times when people worried about Gilles.

“Good morning, Andre.”

“Good morning, Gilles.”

Was that a sparkle in his eyes? A gleam, perhaps? Bordering on a twinkle, for crying out loud.

Sacre, merde.

At least someone was happy.

***

The room was quiet. Doctor Guillaume, looking preoccupied, found the tool he was looking for on the tray beside the stainless-steel slab.

“Da, di-da, da-da. Hmn-hmn-hmn.”

He’d taken one or two photos of the end of the thing already. Clad in his habitual outfit of shiny black shoes, dark grey trousers and long, sky-blue lab coat with a genuine carnation in the button-hole, he tended to hum and cuss and fuss and mumble to himself as he worked. With receding, mousy-brown hair, wire-rimmed glasses, thickening round the middle in recent years, there were still some youthful qualities to Doctor Guillaume.

Perhaps it was his love of the work.

He looked up at Gilles.

“Do it.” Maintenon wanted a quick look at the thing.

His report would also be written as precisely as possible, which made things hard for defense lawyers…Guillaume didn’t much like being contradicted.

Especially…by defense lawyers.

Gripping the dart tightly, just below the tail-feathers, the doctor gave it firm pull and out it came.

“Ah.”

“Nice.” Levain spoke for the two of them.

Doctor Guillaume laid it reverently aside. Unbuttoning the shirt, he peeled back the fabric. The tiny hole in the victim’s chest was black and dry, as one might expect by this time. If nothing else, they had the time of death nailed down pretty tight, and something like two thousand eye-witnesses…to attest to that fact.

Flashbulbs popped as their technical assistant Francois documented this interesting exhibit. He’d arrived breathless but awake, and with a full kit. He’d be heading over to the Palais after this.

He caught the Inspector’s eye.

“Yes, Francois?”

“Nothing, sir.” Yet there was that funny smirk there—

Gilles wondered what that was all about. Pure, boyish fascination, possibly.

Merde.

They were all like that these days.

Monsieur Banzini’s body had been stripped except for the shirt and jacket, pinned in place by the dart.

With help from his own assistant, a beefy lad named Ducharme, Doctor Guillaume lifted and turned the body. They peeled off the clothes and set them neatly aside on the next slab.

They took a few photos of Exhibit A, lying on a tray.

“That, is really something, Gilles.”

There lay what appeared to be a thorn. It was fibrous, striated lengthwise, and might have been a reddish-brown colour under the residue of blackened blood. It was easily eighty or ninety millimetres long. There was a bit of pale fabric or vegetable fluff glued on the butt end, twisted around and secured with thin black thread.

It was wickedly sharp, all the more obviously so as it had penetrated almost to the butt.

“A little bit of the tip might have broken off inside the wound.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

It was true that Banzini had fallen forward, perhaps it was more accurate to say that he was discovered face down. For what it was worth, there was a fresh bruise on the left knee. The shaft was unbroken, with no sign of stress or bending. The thing had gone in, right to the hilt.

Unbelievable.

“Penetration between the second and third rib. Angle of entry, a few degrees off horizontal. Above, I mean, or he was leaning forward. I reckon the heart was punctured, but I will, of course, do a full autopsy.” His eyes glinted behind the lenses. “Hmn. Yes. Of course.”

Maintenon stood there staring down at the vacant face, features peaceful but eyes still open.

“Yes, I want you to be very, very thorough.”

It was like Banzini didn’t even know what hit him. Gilles chewed his lip.

“Somebody didn’t like him very much, did they?”

It all came down to motive—and personality.

The personality of the victim, and the personality of the killer.

(End of excerpt.)

Editor's Note. This is an excerpt from a work in progress, Maintenon and the Golden Dragon, and all all materials are subject to change and revision.

Excerpt # 1. 

Excerpt # 3.

Excerpt # 4.


Redemption: an Inspector Gilles Maintenon mystery is the first in this series.

Excerpt: Maintenon and the Golden Dragon.

  

Louis Shalako

She had lips like rubies, toes like jelly beans and nipples that could cut glass. Her cheeks were high and flushed. Her skin was like alabaster.

Her name was Mathilde Gaudrau. It was her first really good role rather than just being in the chorus.

Mathilde was, quite naturally, devastated.

She’d been the closest to the victim when the lights came down. When the lights came back up again, Largo Banzini, a promising new tenor, was dead on the floor at her feet.

The circumstances were troubling.

So far, only they knew that. To everyone else, it would merely be sensational. They had damned little evidence and no suspects. It was early and no one knew a thing.

Not yet, anyways.

“So you didn’t hear anything at all? Nothing out of the ordinary?”

The girl was still sniffling.

She crumpled the wet handkerchief, all lace and airy holes in her anguished hands. Gilles was wondering if there had been any sort of deep relationship there. Banzini had a reputation as a play-boy and was successful.

He had money and style, as such things went. Even the critics liked him.

“I’m sorry, Inspector.”

“You’d think he would have gasped, or cried out, or clutched at his chest or something…”

“No, Inspector. But it really is a hustle and bustle back there with the crew working at top speed.”

“Uh-hmn.”

Maintenon raised his eyebrows, flipping idly through the notebook. It was the end of Act One, and time for a change in the set and scenery. Banzini had shown no signs of distress. 

The star, having sung very well according to those they had interviewed thus far, would have normally stepped off the stage. He would have gotten back to his dressing room on the double. There was a quick costume change. After a little touch-up on the hair and makeup, he would have waited in the wings until the scenery was done. She certainly had, as she had her own change. Her hair style would be done, and the dress. Then, along with other members of the cast, Banzini would have gone out, the curtain still down, and found his marks. He would have waited patiently. The lights would be down, although there was enough light back there to find their way around. The curtain would go up, up would come the lights—and there was Banzini, lying dead on stage.

Unfortunately, it hadn’t happened that way. He seemed to have died at the end of the first act, still in the original costume. Apparently he dressed alone, with no help. It was a personal idiosyncrasy, not unheard of. With his clout, not too many questions had been asked.

No one had noticed whether he came or went, in other words.

The whole thing seemed very unlikely and yet there it was—

They needed to establish everyone’s movements during the break. There was a cast of dozens, dozens more in support crew, and dozens more in various categories of hangers-on. It was opening night and anyone who was anyone, anyone who could be there, would be there. Wild horses couldn’t have kept them away.

The opera itself was almost secondary—to be seen was the thing.

The audience would have been abuzz, up on their feet and craning their necks. The manager had quickly called an ambulance. The understudy had stepped in, performed magnificently, and the show must go on—always, always, the show must go on.

It’s what everyone had said so far.

Banzini had been whipped away via ambulance, only to be pronounced dead (really dead) at the hospital.

Quite a treat for lovers of drama. Telling the audience that the star was indisposed—something they must have known for themselves, the manager called police, and arguably—his insurer.

Banzini’s agent, also in attendance in a private box reserved for just that purpose, would have been doing exactly the same thing—calling his insurer.

There really hadn’t been much more that they could do, except to try and keep a lid on things.

They would have been hoping for the best…

“..and, when the lights came up, and there was Largo Banzini, lying dead at your feet…”

She flushed, but what else would one have done?

She started screaming and then ran away, sobbing, providing a fine distraction for those other cast members who still hadn’t seen it...

So far, their witnesses were merely speculating as to why he might have collapsed. Heart attack, stroke, brain embolism—the whole gamut from A to Z. Banzini had been the picture of health before the performance—opening night, the house full of celebrities, the corporate boxes full, even the President of the Republic’s wife attending with friends.

Mathilde Gaudrau was wearing a simple pink slip of a dress, hand-beaded with faience or something fine and colourful. That one must have set somebody, (probably not her), back about four thousand francs at any one of a hundred shops somewhere along the Rue de las Paix. It was opaque enough that a slip wasn’t required—just barely.

It was good to see that her feet were not too deformed, although as she aged, it might still happen.

It was all too common with modern footwear.

“Very well, young lady. If we have further questions, may we contact you?”

Levain had all the details of address and phone number.

He never forgot a pretty face, as the saying went. That’s what notebooks were for.

“Of course.” She rose gracefully from her seat, smoothed down the clingy knit and with a nod from Levain, Mathilde turned and headed for the door.

It was hard not watch that kind of action, and Andre Levain a married man and all.

No one thought Banzini drunk, and if he had any really bad habits, it had never interfered with his performance before. Some of them already knew he was dead. Not just collapsed, but dead.

When pressed, they said a rumour was going around—and ambulance attendants could be bribed if the price was high enough. Excited people blurted things out that perhaps they shouldn’t have.

Secrets didn’t last for long, not in this town.

The fact that he was laying on the stage and unresponsive would have been a dead giveaway.

Tips were sold all the time, auctioned off over the phone as it were.

A few drops of blood, one small round patch where he had been lying, had been completely missed, at first.

Even so—

A death by natural causes would be sensational—Banzini was that popular, known from his society page and tabloid antics…the meteoric rise in the opera career.

Maintenon rubbed his tired eyes.

The opera was The Golden Dragon, by the late composer Fosse. He was, according to witnesses, generally regarded as not a genius but competent enough and knowledgeable in the tastes of Parisian opera-goers. Maintenon knew, vaguely, that this was the composer’s most popular work without ever having seen an opera in his entire life. That was the benefit of a working class upbringing, a liberal education and thoroughly reading the newspaper on any given day. A hit might not be the same thing as good, thought Maintenon. Some of them were very prolific, and the more money they made, the more important they became.

“All right, Andre. Who’s next?” Called out into a black and dreary winter night, Gilles was distinctly cranky.

Levain looked at his list. His mouth opened, but at that exact moment, someone knocked at the door of the small room they were using.

Bring on the witnesses.

All two thousand of them.

“Yes? Come in.”

A gendarme stuck his head in the door.

“It’s Chiappe—and he’s got company. He’s on his way up, sir.”

“Aw, for shit’s sakes.” Maintenon gave his head a quick shake. “What, was he watching the show?”

“I don’t think so, sir. You know what big ears he’s got—”

“Shit, Gilles.” Levain gave the officer a look. “So, like who else?”

“The President’s wife for one thing. Also Monsieur—ah, what’s his name, the president or director of the Opera Garnier.”

“Merde.”

Levain nodded. “That would be a certain Jacques Rouché.” They’d already gotten a quick and dirty précis as to the night’s events from the gentleman.

A full statement probably wouldn’t include much more.

“There goes the neighbourhood.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

Levain, reaching for a cigarette, eyed the fellow speculatively.

He gave him a quick wink, Maintenon busy scowling at his notes and no doubt wishing he was home with the cat, a book and his brandy. A cheese and mushroom quiche, or something like that…

“Well. Looks like we’re going to have ourselves a real bastard of a time with this one, eh, sir?”

Coal-black eyes came up and stared at the gendarme. Gilles was otherwise silent.

The face was a bit stiff and the corners of the mouth turned down. The chin jutted forwards, a bad sign in the officer’s interpretation.

“Ah, yes, sir.” The young fellow, duty done, averted his eyes and closed the door very quietly behind him.

***

Madame Poincaré was a stout, competent woman, clad in black as befitted her age, her marital, and her social status.

Rouché hung in the background, grey and sweaty in his seersucker suit.

Her face was grim, gloved hands in her lap, her hat of a previous season oddly counterbalancing a frock which would have been a promotional item rather than a purchase. 

A bit frumpy on her blocky frame, it was all black silk and Chantilly lace, the neckline high and skirt hemmed relatively low. Just this once, she had forgone the high, lace-up Victorian boots. That’s not to say her shoes weren’t sensible, because they were…

One of the perks of being the President’s wife was that people sent you things. Very nice things.

She had a rose named after her, or so Gilles recalled. She might have been something in her younger days—probably had, one must concede. She’d recently been featured in a prominent home decorating magazine, giving a big long interview on the duties of a proper wife and what a home should be.

“Ah, Inspector—”

“Yes, Jean-Baptiste?”

“How are things going?” This was not a very good time to ask as Maintenon and Levain had only been there for a little over an hour.

The performance had to end, and due to the events of the evening, the cast had made several encores, resulting in one final standing ovation. The ticket-holders had certainly gotten their money’s worth tonight. All of this took time, and the police had waited for the players to clean up and change into street clothes before beginning the interviews.

To say the opera was special would be an understatement. The only thing bigger was the ballet—which were also performed at the Palais Garnier.

“The Madame had a wonderful view of the stage from her box.” Chiappe coughed.

So the lady wanted some attention, then—

She must have been upset.

“Ah, yes. Of course.”

Gilles indicated a seat.

Hopefully she would be discreet.

“We really don’t have much information to go on, not at this point, Madame. But all sources indicate he was young, healthy, and in the prime of life. Still, in the case of such a sudden demise—”

They were in the Imperial concourse, the pavillon or Rotonde de l'Empereur, left unfinished when the Empire fell—hopefully for good that time.

Gilles took a seat. Rouché would have to do without. He was in no fit state to notice at this stage of the game. If anyone knew where the chairs were kept, it really ought to be him.

“Please, Madame.” Gilles gave the impression of being pleased, to at last discover an intelligent woman. “Tell us. What did you see and hear.”

Chiappe bustled about, bringing up his own chair to sit beside her. Thoughts of taking her hand and patting it clearly crossed his mind, but then he caught Gilles’ eye and thought better of it.

“It’s okay, Henriette—just tell him what you told me.” They were knee-to-knee.

She nodded. She was the wife of the President of the Republic. Never would she forget. 

While she had a certain dignity to maintain, and would have loathed any suggestion of nosiness, if there was anything she could do to help the police, naturally it was her duty to do so. The psychology was not hard to read.

Slightly neurotic, but not too over the top. About what you’d expect, in other words—

“Very well. Well. The performance was going along nicely—really, it’s a very lovely little play, quite aside from the music, and so nice to see them together on stage—”

“Who, Madame?”

“Ah. Monsieur Banzini and Mademoiselle Gaudrau—”

“Go on.” Maintenon made a show of jotting things down. “He was older, wasn’t he?”

“Er, yes—I believe he was about thirty-four.”

“Ah.”

She had the grace to blush.

“And she, I believe, is about twenty-three.” They would have made a nice couple, in other words.

She probably had more power than Poincaré himself, if one cared to think of it that way.

He at least had to preserve the forms, the appearance of democracy. She would be subject to no such restrictions or illusions.

“It’s a romantic tale, after all. Go on, please.”

“Yes, Inspector.”

Levain stirred at his side. His guts rumbled in tired disdain, but the Madame appeared not to have heard. A glance from Chiappe settled that question, as for Rouché, it’s not like he cared.

That one was definitely distracted.

“Well. He finished the aria, the chorus did their little bit, and people were applauding. The lights came down very slowly. Banzini and Mademoiselle Gaudrau were taking a breath and having a wave at the audience before going off. And that is when I heard something.” She grimaced, looking down at her clutching hands. “Naturally, when I saw Jean-Baptiste coming along, I felt I had to mention it straight away.”

Blowing a few kisses to famous faces on opening night wasn’t exactly new. Audience reaction was very good and everyone was enjoying the performance.

“Hmn. So. What did you hear?”

“I heard this funny little sound—like a grunt or a gasp, or a stifled cough…something like that.”

“And when the lights went up, approximately five or six minutes later, the gentleman was lying on the stage. Not unnaturally, you put two and two together. And you did exactly the right thing—I just wanted to assure Madame of that. Very well. Could you tell us more or less where this sound might have come from?”

“That, ah, is terribly difficult.” The lady’s eyes rolled up and back, going from one side to another.

She impaled him with her next glance. Madame wasn’t exactly stupid. She was smart enough not to make up an answer.

“I couldn’t really swear to it, but it seemed to come from below us—perhaps a bit to one side or another. A little bit to the right, perhaps. But it might have been him—Monsieur Banzini, I mean.” Their box was hanging practically over the stage, as she explained.

The light folding chair creaked as she shifted her weight.

“I see. And this was just after the lights went dark?”

“Yes—very shortly afterwards.” The transition from bright to dark had not been complete, as she put it.

“I see.”

Ahem.

“Okay, so was there anything else?” Levain.

She shook her head, unintimidated.

Chiappe looked at Gilles and Gilles looked at Chiappe.

That would appear to be it.

“I would just like to reassure Madame—and the President, that we will leave no stone unturned.”

Now he really was patting her hand.

Shut up, Chiappe.

Maintenon and the boss exchanged a look.

The door opened.

Their young gendarme stuck his head in, catching Maintenon’s eye.

“Yes?”

“Phone call, Inspector—it’s Doctor Adam, down at the hospital.”

“Ah.”

Chiappe stood, extending a hand to assist Madame Poincaré.

“Well. Thank you, thank you, Madame. You may have been of very great assistance to us.”

She flashed them a grateful look and then Chiappe managed to get her out the door as the officer held it politely.

“Inspector? Right this way, please.”

***

It was a huge vast room with bare stone along the exterior wall. Blank windows stared out into the black night, curtain-less. The public never saw this part of the building.

Someone had found them a small office with a telephone extension, for what looked like a high-pressure, very political investigation.

“Hello. Doctor Adam? Inspector Gilles Maintenon.”

“Ah. Inspector Maintenon. I think you might want to get down here.”

“I don’t think I can get away. There’s quite a few people we haven’t spoken to yet, and they are, ah, rather unanimously clamouring to go home.”

“Okay. Anyways, it’s definitely murder. Just to remove all doubts. He was killed by a dart from a blow-gun.”

“What?”

Gilles turned and looked at the young gendarme, looking furtive and trying to pretend he wasn’t listening for all he was worth.

“Nom de Dieu.” Gilles made a shooing motion and the young fellow moved off, hands behind his back and resisting the urge to whistle in cheerful boredom. “Ah. Right. I’ll tell you what—”

“We’re probably not going to ship the body over to Doctor Guillaume before morning, Inspector.”

Maintenon thought furiously.

“I’ll be down there as soon as I can get away.”

Maintenon had just seen Inspector Martin enter the room, with an eager-looking young man in tow, Detective-Sergeant Proulx as he recalled.

“Ah, Gilles. What in the hell is going on?”

Tall and cadaverous, hair thinning up top and with permanent lines and pouches under the eyes, Martin was known to all and sundry as The Bloodhound.

He was nothing if not competent.

Gilles had wondered once or twice if he knew about that nickname.

“That, is a very good question.” Taking Inspector Martin aside, he gave him the news. “I would like to keep the fact that this is murder, and the weapon, as quiet as we can. At least until the inevitable news conference.”

“Huh. I agree. Anything else?”

“I would like to know who called the police. So far no one has admitted to calling us, and I would like to know why.”

Martin nodded thoughtfully.

“Right. You.” Their anonymous gendarme froze. “Stay here by this phone. Proulx. Come with me.”

(End of excerpt.)

Editor's Note: Ah, hmn. Well. Okay ladies and gentlemen. We'll sort of keep working on that until it's done. 

Excerpt # 2.

Excerpt # 3. 

Excerpt # 4.