Louis Shalako

Thursday, January 26, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 29.

That ain't a Mercedes, Boss.

Louis Shalako

It was Monday morning, and any resultant hangovers from Saturday night had hopefully run their course.

A half a dozen of them, at their desks, on the phones, at the coffee machine, and now there was a knock at the door. No one ever knocked, so this could only be—

Roger.

“Ah, Gilles, people.” He grinned, almost as if he were happy to see them.

He might have caught a guilty look from one or another of them.

Gilles picked up his pen, sighed and looked at Joseph, who was on the phone. Joseph looked back, one eyebrow raised.

“Uh, huh.”

“Well, Gilles. It’s just that Cariveau, or at least his passport, and a face that is a reasonable facsimile of the photo therein, has arrived in Valparaiso.”

“Okay.”

“It gets weirder from here, ah, Gilles.”

“So.”

“Gilles. None of the young men, quite a few of them, have returned to their homes, their jobs, or the usual haunts.” This included Baille, as he said.

This included the one in holy orders…a half a dozen other missing young males, about the right age group if nothing else. Those ones had at least stayed missing.

“Think about it, Gilles, None of them has been killed, none of them is really a suspect, not in any sense, in spite of their political activities. The relationships seem fairly tame if not entirely innocent. None of them in any sort of money problems, girl problems, stuff like that.” The room was very quiet, in spite of them all appearing to be doing something else. “It’s a list of names, and four anonymous dead bodies.”

“Er.” Joseph cleared his throat.

“Yes?” Roger turned, regarding the little man.

“Gilles thought he saw that Schleicher character. At the, er, party, sir. Yeah, other than that, and, uh, other than that, if the truth be told, we all had a really good time.” He cleared his throat. “So. Thanks for the tickets.”

And the overtime—

Jesus. All that overtime: Roger.

Maintenon explained. One problem, was the angle and the distance—Gilles couldn’t really be sure, as to whether the person had entered the men’s or the ladies…it had been kind of a dark corner back there, and worse, there was a back door—a fire exit onto an alley.

Roger turned back from LeBref for a better look. He couldn’t help but laugh, but this was a serious business. He shook his head.

“I mean.” Gilles began to darken in the face. “I mean, considering Alphonse’s, ah, Amazon.”

For all he knew, it might just have been an unusually tall woman in odd-ball clothes, going in to powder the nose. They might, have gone into the ladies room. Interestingly, all of the officers present had mingled, thoroughly, and no one recalled seeing such a person. Negative evidence, and he was already doubting his own sanity. Gilles was as fallible as any other witness.

Roger nodded.

“Sir?”

Roger uncrossed his arms.

“It might be better if we could talk in private. I really am trying to help, you know.”

It’s not like he wasn’t the chief of police, or something. Maybe Roger was going insane as well.

***

The meeting went on, with the air filling with smoke, someone in the background making a fresh pot of fairly bad coffee, and the phones ringing here and there, and it was the usual mess.

“So, of our young men, Saulnier, or a facsimile, has reappeared at least once. Cariveau, for all intents and purposes, has safely arrived in Valparaiso, ostensibly to join the family business of a great uncle according to our inquiries, all very confidential of course…”

The authorities were cooperative, and would follow up in due time. Valparaiso was a port of entry, the actual family business was in another, much smaller town in the interior.

Way, way up in the interior…

Nothing real fast was going to happen there.

“Baille, at least, isn’t dead yet, at least the last time you saw him…”

Roger went on.

“…of the ladies. Yes, this part is really interesting. Madame Daniau, Rosine…hasn’t paid the rent. Mailbox overflowing…maid let go some weeks ago, and no one knows her name anyways…” The people next door were new, hadn’t really spoken to too many people. “…they say the maid was shy, kept to herself and didn’t talk too much.”

She hadn’t received any personal mail. One room might have been occupied by a servant…

Hmn.

One could theorize endlessly.

New neighbours. Just getting to know the place. Uniformed officers were making routine inquiries, just curious, as it were. Chat them up, see what they might spill, sort of thing.

“If she was going on a world cruise or something, she would have made proper arrangements…” One must assume.

As far as had been determined, she hadn’t been killed, knocked over by a bus or whatever. No one of that name had been recently admitted to hospital. Authorities had red-flagged the name, and if anything—or any one, turned up, the cops, would be the first to know.

“Wasn’t that the one who came in and showed the passport, ah, sort of first thing, Gilles?”

Gilles nodded, sighed, made notes…yes, this was all very suggestive.

“Madame Bernier. Interestingly, she’s disappeared as well. Oh, both apartments are still furnished, and in good repair, and with a bit of rotten food and all of that. The landlords are cooperating…” Roger looked up.

“Just going on the notes, none of them seems to have owned a pet…other than a certain archetype, of, uh, young man…” Pets complicated matters when you wanted to pull up stakes in a hurry.

Young men, of a certain age and type were disposable, as he sort of saw it…

“Argh.”

“Yes, I understand.”

Roger flipped a page.

“Then there is—or was, Mademoiselle Robert. Er, the male was, theoretically, one Jules Lalonde. Who has not reappeared, neither has any dead body, or the remains thereof, been positively identified as him, well, now she seems to be rather scarce, and at this point, one begins to wonder if she ever existed at all.” The rent was good until the end of the month.

Paid by cheque, a whole year’s worth at once according to the landlord, and officers were inquiring. The cheques hadn’t bounced. Not yet, anyways.

“Hmn.”

“Here’s one, Gilles. D’Aubreuil. Never returned to his monastic cell. Never returned home, never had a phone or an address or a bank account, what with being destined for Holy Orders. That’s an enigma, for all we know he’s joined a fucking pirate ship in the South Seas…”

And it went on. And on. And on, and on, and on.

Roger flipped through the notes.

“Oh, yes, what was that other lady’s name…”

Claire Laurent, and he seemed to have missed one somewhere in there. He had too many pages. The fingertips were too dry to separate the pages. It was like Maintenon said. It was all just bullshit after a while, one that might eventually take up an entire filing cabinet, or more likely, a whole bank of them.

Argh.

There was a pause and this seemed like a good time.

“Speaking of Alphonse.”

Now it was Roger’s time to blink, owlishly, looking up from his own voluminous files.

It was a bit of a story all on its own.

***

Gilles had not been hungover in the classic sense, although he’d had a lot to drink the night before. It was more a kind of buzz, even now, first thing in the morning. The alcohol hadn’t quite worn off yet, not completely. Perhaps a little dehydrated, but nothing more. Other than that, he’d suffered a bit of dry-retching, when brushing his teeth. He’d lit up, and suffered a hacking cough that resulted in a fair bit of phlegm, but they’d been up very late the night before…way too much tobacco for one day.

It was perhaps for that reason, what with a slight fuzzy feeling and a bit of pain in the lower right rear of the skull, it had taken some little time to realize that Alphonse was taking all the wrong turns, leading in all the wrong directions.

As it turned out, Alphonse had been reading the reports, looking at the maps, and they were clearly going somewhere else.

“Okay, sir. Now. Take a look at this.” Down low, the radio slung under the dashboard squawked and muttered and he reached over and turned it down even further.

He handed over a map.

“It’s not exactly a cul-de-sac, not quite. You can get out the back way, following down an alley, all light industry and bins overflowing with stuff. All too easy to get a puncture, right.” A roofing company, light industry, mechanical services, and machine shops, all strung out in a line.

The alley just led to more industrial areas, bisected by railroad tracks, and there were only limited places to cross the tracks. Alphonse built up a picture in words.

Gilles looked at the fairly large scale map, folded just so, to show this part of the city, an industrial section in the southeastern suburbs.

After an initial pinch-point, turning in off the actual street, there was a kind of plaza, lined on each side with small store-fronts, some with fading signs and some with a different kind of sign, activity, an open door, a vehicle parked with engine idling out in front as someone came and went.

Wrong car, and yet here it is, right in the right place.

And then there was this one, where Alphonse and Gilles and their vehicle also idled. No one looked, no one cared. No one gave a damn—it was all pretty anonymous.

“Anyhow, sir. I asked around. My guess is, that the big black car is sitting right behind…door number four.”

Gilles snorted; it was a good a guess as any.

Those tired old eyes, big and brown and beautiful, like some sad old hound-dog, regarded Gilles over the right shoulder.

“So. How much do you want to bet?”

Gilles shook his head.

“Nope.”

Alphonse nodded.

He had a pair of bolt-cutters in the trunk.

This would be just a little bit unorthodox, as he put it.

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Louis an audiobook, Speak Softly My Love. That’s free with a trial membership.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Thank you for reading.

Friday, January 20, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 29.

Thank you, my dear.

Louis Shalako

In the end, the people had been amiable, the conversation had been tolerable, the intro from the head table interminable, and the dancing something of a revelation.

They were learning, again, together. He wondered just how long it had been for her—dancing, just dancing. For him, at least fifteen or twenty years. A shitty little thought.

Margot had leaned in, on the first dance, a slow waltz and informed him that her son was bugging her to take music lessons. Her daughter had just been confirmed into the Roman Catholic Church. The youngest had been taking Catechism, and was just about ready for her First Communion—which required some kind of informed consent, as he recalled, whatever that meant at that age. She was trying to tell him to loosen up and that she was a professional.

There was nothing to worry about.

That, well, it had been enough, and it was like some small and insignificant elastic little band, a little red band, barely go around your little finger twice sort of band, had snapped inside of him.

Fuck, it was just duty and any embarrassment at the current situation would sort of dissipate, if not Monday morning, then surely by Tuesday, or by Wednesday at the latest.

She’d laughed upon hearing that, and Gilles had sort of settled into it, and at least he had remembered enough footwork to get by—there had been a time, quite some time ago, when he might have been a little better at it. He and Ann would have been a lot younger, perhaps a little more sober, and that was pretty much it, perhaps a little more practiced.

The music ended, they shuffled back to the table, and it seemed as if the executive committee had made up their minds; even though their minds must have been made up a long time ago, considering the fact that the trophies had to be engraved ahead of time and all of that sort of a thing.

Someone had to know what was going on.

Someone had to know what was in that envelope.

***

Roger slipped into the seat beside him, ignoring Margot.

“Gilles, I’ve had a brainstorm. I’m thinking of talking to the manager, sort of seizing all the passports, and shit like that—”

“Who? Why. This is all bullshit.”

Langeron’s breath stank of alcohol, but then Maintenon’s probably did too.

“…that way, we get at least half of them…”

Gilles laughed out loud.

Yes, but only half—for whatever reason.

“Let’s not and say we did.”

“What?”

“Why don’t we just get them to make us a list. We can always shut them down before they leave town.”

He waited.

“All you have to do is talk to the Minister of the Interior.”

Roger sat, considering it. Well, it was an idea—

The other folks at the table were more interested in other things, and in fact one of their married couples were rising, making their goodbyes and obviously interested in leaving, above all else.

“But—but.”

Let's not, and say we did.

The man at the microphone stopped talking and right about then, Roger’s voice seemed very loud.

Looking around, no was paying the slightest attention.

The band was striking up a polka.

Gilles rose, extending a hand in Margot’s direction.

“My dear? I may be a bit creaky, but I honestly believe I can do this—”

She laughed, but she pushed the chair back and they were on the floor in a minute…following along, in a short queue between the tables. Poor old Roger was sitting there looking flabbergasted, or nonplussed, or maybe just underwhelmed. Fuck, it was still an idea.

“I suggest we sort of pick a dark corner…we’ll end up there, dance our way over, and then, if necessary…” They could abandon the attempt.

Margot was willing enough. They’d both had a few drinks, and that helped. She stuck her lips up close to his ear. Chin to chin, ear to ear and pelvis to pelvis. She had nice bone structure.

“My husband’s working overtime at the munitions plant again.” She gave him a little poke in the ribs.

He grinned from ear to ear. He stuck his mouth up close to her ear—

“Thank you for that, my dear.”

Her chuckle was low and throaty and as long as they went along with the crowd and didn’t trip over anyone, they might even get through this. Turns out, he still remembered it; that and the feel of hot, wet perspiration dripping down the inside of the shirt. It was a brand-new shirt, but fuck the cost anyways. He’d gotten all the straight pins out of the packaging, and that was really something these days.

It was better than a sharp poke to the old jugular.

He wondered if she was sweating too.

He leaned in and told her all that and she gave him another poke.

After a while, he noted Levain and his wife, dancing along and doing quite a good job of it, she was pregnant as things stood. He did listen, of course, but after a while, it all went in one ear and out the other. They’d been friends for many years, and it had all come down to that. With a start he recognized another officer, companion unknown, and they were good enough to ignore him…that one was from the traffic department. They were all volunteers, here.

Margot gave him a look of one sort or another, when he told her that Nichol had been pregnant for the last thirteen months and people were beginning to wonder…

“Now, now, Gilles.” She did laugh, though.

He grinned over her shoulder, studiously ignored by the male of another nearby couple, his eyes wide open but the lady clearly in some kind of physical trance-like state…one could sort of see where this was leading.

Good luck with that one, sir.

She’ll pass out first, or she’ll puke in your lap…

He’d seen it happen before.

The next dance was another fast one, and maybe he should have known better. There was some sort of formula for this sort of thing, and of course they were bound to play a nice, slow and romantic one sooner or later.

It was funny, how all of that had become so much clearer, thirty or forty years later.

He thought of Ann, he thought of Esther. So many years ago. Both of them dead, both of them painful memories in their own degree. Ann was his wife and his first love. Esther had been an accidental fling, yet not without emotion, even real affection. If only he hadn’t come along, she might still be alive. Things might have been different, with Esther—something else he had just seen clearly. Perhaps not for the first time, but clearly.

They got about halfway through it when Margot gave his upper arm a quick squeeze and it was time to break off from the action for a while. There was a tap on the shoulder.

They stood back.

“…so…”

Steve, from Vancouver—

“May I cut in, my good man…?”

Hell, why not, it was as good a time as any.

She tipped Gilles a wink…

As someone had once put it.

***

Steve, from Vancouver.

Gilles watched as Steve from Vancouver swept Margot up in his arms and the pair danced away.

He’d had a brainstorm of his own, and just when he thought he might get away unscathed, he found his way blocked by a stout young woman who had been eyeing him from a table across the centre aisle…he had wondered what that was about.

She was bound, bent and determined to get a dance, why him in particular, was something of a mystery—

Damn.

With shoes about two sizes too small for her, the only one she was fooling was herself.

“Well, just this one, my dear.” Suppressing any signs of irritation as best he could, as they took up their stance, he was bemused to see a vaguely-familiar figure…Schleicher.

Merde!

Like a punch in the guts…

From behind, he hadn’t actually seen the face, but the figure was tall, built about the same way, and dressed in the first Sherlock outfit they’d seen so far other than LeBref. A door opened and the person was gone into the rest room, and here was poor old Gilles, looking around for Levain, Roger, Joseph, Margot, anyone at all would have done.

She looked up with shining eyes, giving him a quick and playful bat on the shoulder.

“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said.” True enough—

“Oh, ah. Terribly sorry, my dear.” Merde.

He was tempted to march her straight backwards across the floor, keeping an eye on that door, but to do so would have been to risk disaster…the throng were going counter-clockwise in some internal and infernal herd instinct.

Fuck, there was nothing to do but dip, and twirl, and float around the room, and this just kept getting better and better, all of the fucking time.

And of course by the time Gilles shook the lady off, ah, Millie from Birmingham, with two novel-manuscripts under her belt and another one coming out soon. Which was a real big break according to her, from a very reputable publisher. Of course the washroom was empty, one solitary tap dripping the only sign of recent occupancy. That and a faint smell of urine.

Fuck.

Schleicher.

And of course, the lady was waiting for him. Right outside the door.

The next musical piece was a foxtrot, and the thought crossed his mind. What the hell, why not.

She smelled vaguely floral, face-powder and hair spritz; arm-pit powder and God knew what else. He was rediscovering something, and he wished he wasn’t—maybe he just needed the experience.

“So. You’re the great Gilles Maintenon.” She laid her head on his shoulder.

His mouth opened, and closed.

“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.” She looked up, biting a corner of her lower lip. “Honestly, you must think us a bunch of proper fools.”

He took a better look at the young lady.

“No…not at all.” He thought. “There…there must have been some reason, way back…way back when. Way back, when I first thought of becoming…you, know, a detective, a cop…a police officer.”

One had to choose, and to move on that goal, and the books had at least stimulated such thoughts.

It might have turned out worse, after all.

“Some of the best criminal minds in the world are in this room, right here, and right now.” He smiled. “They simply chose a better path, over an actual criminal career. Which is, quite frankly, not quite so glamorous as some books and films would imply—”

It was her turn to take another look.

“Yes. I can see why, now.”

They had underestimated each other.

He could have been a criminal, after all, and he told her so. And so could she—

Perhaps it was the wine.

It’s not like he didn’t have the mind for it, and she laughed when he said it.

And of course, he had already forgotten her name.

Millie. It was Millie—he was almost sure.

She was a student, a fan of books and reading, and she’d been in Paris for months. She’d recognized him from the paper. She’d always wanted to write a book…lots of people tried and failed, she’s at least finished a couple, thought Gilles. Hell, they might even be good.

Fuck.

***

END

Should have brought that thing after all...

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Louis has books and stories on Kobo.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.

Wednesday, January 11, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 28. Louis Shalako.

Roger, Langeron that is. And the wife or mistress, whichever the case may be.

Louis Shalako.

The food was good and then there was Steve from Vancouver.

The food was good—very good.

It wasn’t just that the cooking was good. It was more than good—the presentation showed the hand of a real master, hovering in some aggressive perfectionism over a kitchen of real devotees, all of whom were engaged in a labor of love.

Introductions had been made, and they had all gotten acquainted to some extent. To Gilles’ relief, no one had made any real reaction to his name, but they were all foreigners, which was a stroke of luck.

Americans, British, one Italian and one of the single ladies was from Brazil. Some Canadian guy leaning over from the next table, obviously interested in one or all of the more single and unaccompanied ladies…this was Steve from Vancouver.

Staff were clearing dishes, coffee and brandy was being offered. Sooner or later, the folks at the head table would decide it was time for the speeches. People were lighting up, males mostly, but some of the ladies as well…he was sort of awed by one grand dame, with some sort of ebony cigarette holder as long as her arm. The lorgnette, glasses on a stick as Ann had said once, was almost unnecessary, as she peered through the eye-piece, unexpectedly fixating on him, and giving a languid finger-wave, moving on with her examination of those around her.

He’d always sort of liked the smell of lighter fluid, as he hit on the end of his own cigar.

Gilles would stub it out in a minute or so, and yet, inevitably he would come back to it. It really was a vile habit.

Off in one corner was a platform, and a small orchestra it seemed, was setting up. Twenty-five pieces, according to the program, jazz, pop and classical. Some sort of lady singer, in a long and silvery dress, as he congratulated himself upon his observations. Big deal. A distinguished looking guy seemed to be presiding over them, and it would start up soon enough—

And then there was the dancing. Margot.

She had eyes too, right.

Their eyes met. He inclined his head, shrugging slightly.

They would cross that bridge when they came to it, with as much grace and dignity as they could muster.

Margot was laughing at him.

Again—

That, was one very dangerous woman.

Her mouth opened and she stared.

He turned to look.

“Oh, my. Is—is that Joseph?” She clamped down and shook her head.

Oh, my, is that Joseph...???

They were supposed to ignore each other, if possible.

The little man, in a plaid cape, for crying out loud…a fucking Sherlock hat, and the pipe, and yes, a big magnifying glass. Which would have taken three hands, but he was doing all right with only two. Carrying a rather full brandy snifter, passing by on his way to somewhere else, he turned and gave Gilles a big wink. Puffing away on the most monstrous cigar…

Oh, for crying out loud—you couldn’t actually see LeBref anymore, but one could follow his progress by the laughs and shouted remarks as the noise in the room picked up.

Would it never end.

There was that wine glass again.

The future is always rosier when viewed through the bottom of a glass. That was D’Artagnan or somebody in some old French novel. The Three Musketeers, Alexander Dumas, which he had read as a boy.

At least he thought he had.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Poor old Louis has books and stories in, on, or at, Kobo.

Author's Note: there is something weird about that first caption, but I can't seem to fix it.

See his alleged works on Fine Art America.

Thank you for reading.

Tuesday, January 10, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, An Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 27. Louis Shalako.

Rubbing elbows, as it were.

Louis Shalako

They said woman, the unfair sex, (wasn’t that Ambrose Bierce, the noted literary cynic?), was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, encompassed by an enigma, and a few more things besides. Bierce, as he recalled, had disappeared under mysterious circumstances…

Somewhere in the southern hemisphere. The Mexican Revolution or something like that.

Margot, on the other hand, was right there, they were literally rubbing elbows.

It was an uncomfortable discovery that she smelled like a garden of flowers, and in a mysterious fashion decipherable to women, or woman, the world over, for surely there was only one woman—yes, they were all sisters under the skin, where men were mostly rivals, all of it written on the outside and sitting there like a big chip on the shoulder.

But it seemed that she had nipped out to the lavatory and slipped into a dress, a dress that could only have cost some money, real money. Had she run out and bought that yesterday? He didn’t care to dwell upon it.

An electric blue kimono, not a straight line upon it, but all the hems and the lines had been cut in curves. It was loose where it mattered, plunged, also where it mattered, and it clung in all the right places. Just loose enough, one could still dance in it. The shoes were revealing enough in their own way—she had one of the little bun hats, a short fringe all around the rim, and a fur stole around her shoulders. She had her working outfit, a professional working woman sort of outfit, in a shopping bag and that would be going home with her. Practical enough.

Gilles was uncomfortable in his thoughts.

Home, what the hell is that.

Home is where the heartache is.

Home is where they send the bills.

She seemed to be ignoring him, the pair of them perched, facing backwards, on the fold-down jump-seats of the big black Citroen. Cigarette smoke enfolded them in its intimate embrace as Alphonse’s skilled hands guided them though the usual evening traffic, only to pull up sooner than expected in front of the hotel. Flunkies in top hats and tailed coats stepped forward smartly to open the door and hold it against the wind. Yes. Let’s all clamber out now.

She looked over unexpectedly, and the liquid-clear eyes were something else.

“Don’t worry, this will all be over soon enough.” A good quote, from four out of five dentists.

He nodded, reassuringly, dry in the throat all of a sudden.

Margot laughed and looked away, Alphonse’s quick glance in the mirror was appreciative. Roger’s companion looked over, right in the eyes, and then looked away. Something lurched in his guts, and then a quizzical-looking Roger made a universal gesture—Gilles reached into a pocket and pulled out one of his interminable dark little cigars. That was what people called them.

“Thanks, Gilles. I honestly have, ah, given them up. But this seems like a special occasion…” He puffed. “My, God, but that snow is really coming down.”

The lady was wearing evening gloves, in some kind of revelation as he thought about wedding rings and things like that.

He still wore his, habit as much as anything else, a kind of shield perhaps…

Gilles...???

Merde. Poor old Maintenon hadn’t had a moment to think all the damned day long, what with three new cases, a conference with Langeron, and a few other things besides. More wind, more gusts, more darkening skies…same old fucking shit, right, only there was this one complication. He hadn’t gotten a nap, either, small surprise that was.

Think of it as a party, Maintenon—

Argh.

As for poor old Gilles, he’d taken a late-day shave in the men’s room, changed his shirt, brushed the old teeth with a wet toothbrush but nothing else. The shoes looked well enough for a cop’s shoes, and hopefully, they could remain in the background and just observe. Show the flag and go home early, God willing…he could have shaved again, and it wouldn’t have made all that much difference—whiskers seem to speed up or something, getting faster with age or something. He could have shaved in the car, just outside the front door and it still wouldn’t have made any difference at all.

Who in the fucking hell cared what he looked like anymore…it was damned cold out there.

Sure.

He just wasn’t built for parties anymore.

***

There was a reception, with clumps of folks standing around with glasses in their hands, waiters with trays of canapés, and serving folks bearing bottles of bubbly wine, white or pink or whatever.

Having gotten rid of the coats and hats, there was only one thing for it, but to head on in and mingle.

Roger and the wife, (he was pretty sure by now), moved off in one direction and Gilles and Margot split, his first instinct being the fireplace and a grouping of chairs and settees, and her for the bar. Long, narrow, the room was a couple of hundred feet long, more a large hallway than anything else, with big doors on both ends, and the sort of formal entrance from the outdoors. That was on the west side, as he reckoned, trying to orient himself.

She turned and looked, and he gave her a nod and a thumbs-up.

There was a chair if he wanted it, but he stood, back to the fire and idly looking around the room. There were at least thirty or forty people, not two or three hundred…not yet, anyways. There was still a half an hour to go. A few more people came in…

Nervous laughter, titillating; up and around from one small group, and shortly after, a real belly-laugh from a group of mostly males…some of those guys had what looked like whiskey in their glasses, and that was a good thing to know too.

So far, no one seemed to have taken any notice of him, or them, or all of them really.

Margot returned, bearing wine glasses.

“Ah, thank you.” This one was very red, very grapey, if that was indeed a word, and just the perfect balance of dryness had been struck.

When he got a minute, he’d take a quick peek at a label and maybe write that one down.

Margot sipped, nodded as if reading his thoughts.

“Hmn. This might not be so bad after all.”

“Huh.”

Merde—she’d removed her wedding ring, but there was a discolouring, an indentation of the skin due to long occupation by aforesaid ring. Sometimes, there was nothing but bad compromises, all around.

As for her—

She grinned, looking around, where animated conversations were taking place, all well-dressed people and no sign of Sherlock impersonators.

“…so this is a bunch of mystery writers.”

He nodded, spluttering in the midst of a swallow.

She thought, studying them perhaps just a bit more carefully…

They seemed rational enough at first glance. Judging by the clothes, the shoes and the hair, there seemed to be money in it. Someone here was going to win an award, after all. These were the successful ones, she realized. The one percent or less, in other words. The ones-in-a-million. They could afford the price of admission.

There were a couple of big doors wide open on the interior side, and on the other side of that, a banquet hall with dozens of round tables, chairs, with a crisp white linen, floral arrangements, place settings for what looked like a few hundred at least. Was it silver, or more likely, silver plate. Who cared. One had to admit, it looked all right.

People were still arriving at both ends, some from inside the hotel, obviously, and some from the street as another blast of cold wind made its presence felt halfway into the room.

“Well, I don’t know about you.” He indicated a chair.

“I think you might be right about that.” Margot was a sensible woman, it had been a long day and that chair looked very nice right about how.

***

Nom de Dieu...

The head table was all reserved, as one might expect and they didn’t want to be there anyways. Everything else was first come, first served. A certain type of person, a certain kind of group, naturally gravitated to the front of the room. Some groups filled a table or two, and they sort of clumped together, all very chummy, noises predictable. Then there were the ones, the twos and the threes, looking at a bit of social awkwardness as they tried to decide whether to sit here, or there, or perhaps somewhere else might be better. Gilles and Margot had grabbed a couple of slots, about halfway up the room. There was already another couple there, and another couple, not caring too much either way, decided this was about as good as anything…there was always room for one bore, as the gentleman said.

Gilles chuckled dutifully as bright blue eyes regarded them all.

The male looked up, waved, and two women, perhaps single but at least acquainted, accepted the idea and the gentleman held their chairs. These people at least all seemed to know each other, authors or their fans. They’d seen each other already, at events, panels or just around the hotel. A full table, and there were still an empty few in the corners and the back of the room, which might fill out as time went on and the fashionably-late straggled in.

Gilles was gratified to see waiters burst forth from the kitchen doors on the end. Carts and trolleys and platters and in the meantime there were hot buns, butter and getting to know one another.

***

END