Louis Shalako

Sunday, February 19, 2023

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

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

Louis Shalako.

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

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

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

Schleicher stood there, actually lowering the knife.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had a silenced pistol.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned with a certain look on his face.

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

He raised the pistol.

He never did get to finish the sentence.

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

But Sophie, Sophie was already firing.

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

You couldn’t really blame her, of course.

***

Sophie: one can hardly blame her...

“Sophie.”

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

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

“Sophie?”

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

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

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

“Say what?”

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

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

She sobbed.

“…I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Sophie.”

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

“And then?”

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

She’d been reading the papers, apparently.

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

She took a deep, shuddering breath.

She nodded.

“There’s more.”

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

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

There he was, looking weird...

He wavered on his feet, thinking. Thinking.

Just thinking.

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

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

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

“If you don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Where’s your coat.”

She shrugged, matter-of-factly.

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

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

Hmn. There was nothing to say to that.

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

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

Sophie was in shock, and that part was understandable.

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

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

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

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

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

After that, Gilles needed to use the phone.

***

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty-One.

Images. Stolen, for the most part.

Louis has books and stories on Amazon.

See his works on ArtPal.

Check out The Chase.

Thank you for reading.

Monday, February 6, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 31. Louis Shalako.

You.

Louis Shalako.

Their thinking on the car had been mucky, very mucky indeed. They were chasing their tails on that one…that had been the last thought that went through his head.

It had been a long day. Gilles woke up in his chair, a glass of cognac barely touched beside him. There were times when the hips just ached lately.

Merde.

He’d been hoping to avoid it, just this once, but it seemed he was unable to escape himself, his routine. His tiredness—his exhaustion, his depression, his ineffable loneliness.

The reliance on the alcohol, as a substitute for any other kind of a life—

Sleep, the last refuge of the truly unhappy.

Gibbon, or so he thought.

Yes, Gibbon. The Decline and Fall—of Gilles Maintenon, this time around.

He looked at the ash tray, and it seemed that he’d at least had the sense to stub out that last one. Wouldn’t want to set the cat on fire. The chair might have been another story. Sylvestre had to be somewhere around there, the animal getting older now, not so much inclined to prowl, but to sit up high on the end of the couch, or in the exact middle of Gilles’ bed—there were other beds, other rooms, but that was the way cats just were. He’d apparently had the foresight to get out of his clothes…shabby slippers, fuzzy socks knitted by an elderly aunt, a gift of several Christmases ago…bottoms, an undershirt and a striped bathrobe. The cat always wanted to sit in his lap when it was least convenient, and to avoid him like the plague when he was ready.

The room was a bit chilly, with a couple of windows open a crack to admit just a sliver of the night air.

The radio was much too loud, and he groaned.

“Oh, God.” One almost had to think about it these days, putting hands upon knees and clambering up. “Shit.”

Gilles made it up, finally, and went over to the radio.

He turned it down.

“Sylvestre. Sylvestre?”

Well, as long as I’m up—and out of the chair. The cognac was room temperature, and he’d refresh that in a minute, but first. The hips were not good, stiff and with a sensation…not exactly pain, but a mild soreness. The left knee would hurt to the touch, and so he didn’t touch it.

He had to pee. Yes, and after that, probably, some small trickle down the leg. It was the price of getting old. It was all that dancing, he thought.

Fuck. Not that he regretted it. Not exactly.

Other than that, it was still sort of early, not that it really meant anything these days, and Sophie had left something for him, something which he simply hadn’t been able to face, not at first, not without a drink at least, upon coming home from work. One drink had turned into three, at least three.

But first, the bathroom.

And there was still something about the car. It would come to him, probably at two-thirty seven a.m., as such things often did.

Argh.

***

Fuck this shit, I am out of here...

The thoughts of food were ambivalent indeed, and yet he knew he had to eat once in a while, besides, there was an element of curiosity. The kitchen smelled oddly neutral when he got there, but there was definitely a casserole or something in the refrigerator, he’d had a quick slug of cold milk in lieu of anything else when he’d gotten home…

There was a sound.

“Sylvestre?”

There was a quick thump.

The cat scuttled across the kitchen floor, coming from the area, the little cul de sac leading to the storage closet, or the back window where he perched sometimes, looking out over the barren and unkempt courtyard with its overflowing bins, run-down little sheds and vague attempts at gardening by the truly poor tenants. All of those garrets, up under the eaves. The animal headed for the front rooms, turning hard right at high speed, claws scratching at the worn brown linoleum. He was gone in an instant, and Gilles wondered what was up.

Hmn. He had to admit, he’d kind of been strangers lately…I’m not that bad, am I.

He turned to the counter, where the bottle stood, and tossed off the last dregs of the warm stuff. It was better at room temperature anyways. He was just pouring and a snap came from the door, and a sudden cold draft hit the back of his neck.

“Good evening, Inspector.”

He turned, mouth open—

“You.”

“Yes, Gilles. Me.”

Schleicher—

Schleicher.

“Merry Christmas. So. Are you surprised.”

***

“I could have sworn I locked that door.”

“Oh, don’t worry Gilles. You did. No, it’s not like you’re losing your mind or anything like that.”

The person stood there beaming.

“Well. No doubt you are wondering why I am here.”

“No. Non—but no one ever does anything for no reason—”

Schleicher nodded.

“That’s very perceptive, Gilles.” He considered.

“Yes, that’s very good, in a masturbatory, self-indulgent, decadent sort of a way.” Hmn. “One supposes, that you would have to have had something to say, anything at all, under such circumstances…”

“You’re the degenerate here.”

“Now Gilles. That doesn’t seem very friendly.”

There were wet footprints across the linoleum, and the winds were whipping up, tugging at the branches from a young sycamore, overgrown to some extent, and much too close to the building, as they slapped at the windows in the back room.

“Do you mind?” Gilles raised the glass and drank.

“Oh, ever so sorry, old boy.” Reaching back with the left hand, never taking his eyes off of Gilles, he gave a push and the hallway door snicked fully closed.

“Pour one for me. For later, Gilles.”

Gilles nodded and began to move.

“Careful.”

“This is where the glasses are kept, mon ami.”

It was hard to turn one’s back. Yes, cool, as cool as a cucumber.

He took his time about it, not that it would buy much time. He set the glass down on the near side of the kitchen table.

There. That’s better.

“So, what can I do for you, old chap.” Maintenon bit it off, the accent near-perfect.

English, spoken with a German accent—not that it proved anything in particular.

Schleicher nodded.

“Well, ever so sorry, and all of that sort of thing, old boy. It’s just that I’ve come here to kill you.” A hand reached, and undid the next button on the cape. “Not much of a present, but as they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

The hand reached in, the right hand, and pulled out a gleaming blade…all forty-five centimetres of it or so, and waved it around under the light, and it glittered in Gilles’ eyes, and even in Schleicher’s eyes.

"Are you salivating yet, mon ami?"

“Are you salivating yet, mon ami?” The contempt was real.

Maintenon’s face was very stiff.

He shouldn’t have drank that—he might have tossed it in the other’s face and maybe even had half a chance. It was a sinking feeling on the realization. It must have shown in his face…knives, fuck, a large pot or pan, a chair maybe, but he was a little too far from the sink, the counter, the drawer, the other room even, and there wouldn’t be enough time anyways. He’d had his last drink.

Throwing plates and saucers at the man didn’t seem like much of an option—

Schleicher grinned.

“Yes, Gilles. It’s all over now.”

Yes, Gilles, but why me.

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

...that gun in the second chapter has to go off sooner or later...

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Louis has books and stories on Smashwords.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Check out this other story.

Thank you for reading.

Wednesday, February 1, 2023

A Stranger In Paris, an Inspector Gilles Maintenon Mystery #9, Pt. 30. Louis Shalako.

Wrong car, right place.

Louis Shalako.

“Well. There it is, then.”

Alphonse regarded Gilles, the light from the windows in the far end throwing everything into a weird light, backlit and foreshadowed and all of that sort of thing. At this time of year, a quarter to eight, the sun had barely shown up above the horizon, let alone really gotten going—yet it was there.

There were lights, metal pots hanging down from above. The light switch, to the right of the man door as opposed to the vehicle doors with their cables and springs and their overhead tracks. The lights worked well enough. There was still electricity, maybe even a trickle of heat. It was all very quiet, still, no one seemed to have noticed, or cared about them. They all had their own business to attend to, as a small forklift trundled past their open door. Another working class son of a bitch, working the weekend…

And then there was the car, and the first real sunlight in days breaking through the windows and the slot windows in a big overhead door on what had to be the northeast side of the building…walking over, looking out, there were ruts and weeds, but essentially nothing, any scrap tires and wheels, any parts or decrepit vehicles were long since gone.

And then there was the car.

The car was parked in the centre of a fairly large room, with benches and windows above, on the back wall, with skylights overhead and the floor bare but smooth concrete. There was an enclosed space to their left, with a door, two doors actually, more windows, this time on the interior, this would be the office where records were kept, and a service manager to write up the work orders, take the money and all of that. To direct the mechanics and the staff.

If only there had been anything to direct, but the space had been empty for a very long time. The only real odour was of mould, or must or mildew, words which all basically meant the same thing. There was a grill, a drain in the middle of the shop floor. It looked dry enough, but even so, there was that smell. There were all kinds of shelves from floor to ceiling along the inner walls. There was nothing on them except perhaps dust. Looking closer, on the smaller, narrower shelves were rings from leaky tins and bottles, on some of the wider upper shelves the marks of tire treads, mostly from a long time ago. Those would have been new tires.

As for the car—it was everything they had said it would be, and it was more, and it was less.

Long, low and lean, this one had been polished to perfection, which would tend to obscure any fingerprints and of course it was all just bullshit, as Alphonse had said, with Gilles standing there silently, sort of absorbing the atmosphere and drinking in the scene.

Listening, even, to the surroundings. It all seemed quiet enough out there.

“Gilles.”

“Yes, Alphonse?”

“This is not a Mercedes SSK.” He pointed. “There are no big, swoopy chrome exhaust pipes…”

His instincts were in full cringe mode.

Merde.

Gilles shrugged. More bullshit...

He shook his head—the coincidence was just too much, and yet it was the wrong car—maybe, at least one witness had been dead sure. No, but how in the hell were they going to explain this.

He gave Gilles a chastened look. And damn it all, he’d been right, after all. Here was the big car, right where he’d figured it ought to be—perhaps true strong a term, but he’d been right.

“Sorry, Boss. I guess we’d better wait for the forensics boys, and our warrant…before we go too much further.” He was just dying to open up the desk, or the drawers under the long counter in the office area…there appeared to be a back door and some kind of open space out there, and he was tempted to go out there and really look.

Gilles shrugged.

“Well. How much do you want to bet?”

Alphonse nodded.

How much do you want to bet.

“Er—I think I’ll pass on this one.”

It was a very good question, wasn’t it.

“Should I get on the radio?”

Gilles nodded.

“Yes. And tell them we need another of the, er—let’s call them one of the open warrants.” The problem with the radio was that the press had their own and paid someone to just sit there and listen. “Make sure it’s Levain or somebody that knows what we’re talking about.”

Call the Unit, and not the dispatcher.

“Yes, sir.” He turned and moved off, never in a hurry and yet never late, either.

Good old Roberval, he might not have thought of everything, but he’d thought of a few things and that was interesting, in and of itself. Alphonse had wondered about the blank warrants.

***

It was inevitable that such a case must, eventually get pushed to the back burner. They had new cases, there were always new cases. Virtually all of them, almost any of them, had a better chance of being solved. There were victims and witnesses, persons-of-interest, suspects, even people in custody. Fuck, the bodies had at least been properly identified. There was the chance, perhaps some very good chances, of getting a conviction in a court of law. The resources had to go where they would do the most good, and that was just professionalism. That didn’t mean you had to like it, it was just good policy.

There were times when good policy really sucked.

This was just one of those times.

It was getting near quitting time, and the initial report on their mystery car had just been sent up.

Alphonse was not in the garage, but responded to radio calls after a while, having nipped out to grab a sandwich or two, an apple and a banana, a carton of milk. He’d agreed to work an afternoon shift for an old friend whose kid was sick and in the hospital. This would be a giveaway shift, rather than a mutual which would have to be repaid...

Good old Alphonse, racking up the hours as usual.

Back in the Unit, spectacles sliding down his nose, the man in question finally looked up.

“Jesus, H. Christ.”

“I agree, Alphonse.” Gilles wondered where he might find some aspirin—surely there must be someone in the building with a few aspirin, but his headache showed all the signs of getting worse, and possibly a long one—

He’d have to wait.

Their car, a Bugatti, had fake license plates. Not stolen, but fakes, and good ones too. Not pasteboard or painted wood, these had been stamped out of thin metal plates with an actual die.

No identifying documents, ownership or insurance, or anything useful inside the vehicle. Wiped down for fingerprints. The vehicle identification tag had been removed. The carpet had been cleaned, the windows as well. Not a speck of dirt on the thing…major serial numbers ground off, on the frame for example, and of course it would take real time to dismantle such a machine…there were only a small number of such cars. It was a beautiful car. There had been one thing: a roll of tooth floss in the glove box, no kidding, and that was all that had been found.

“Gilles. Somebody took that thing apart. Took off all the serial numbers, and then put it back together again.” It was as much a question as a statement.

He shook his head, getting no response from Maintenon other than a small shrug.

Playthings of the very rich, such vehicles tended to be scattered all over the planet. Such people liked their privacy, and the actual company was not being all that helpful, although it was only day one on that subject. Considering the actual machine, someone over there should be able to identify it. It would take some persuading to get them involved or so it seemed. The company was known for their persistent money problems, and perhaps that had something to do with it. Also, the publicity would be unwelcome under the circumstances.

No one had reported any such vehicle missing or stolen.

Officers had chased down two or three of their witnesses, quick work as the photos had to be printed and distributed. It took time to locate such witnesses, and it took time to go across town, to their home, to their work, their place of business. A team effort, and all for what? It was the wrong car.

The wrong car—

Theoretically.

But one could see what anyone else would see, in that any advocate for the defense, hell, even the prosecutor, the judge, the jury, any idiot—anyone could see that it was the wrong car.

Funny thing was, they might even be right.

And yet it was only half the story.

Then there was the space itself. According to the landlord, it had become vacant four or five months earlier, and had not been let out since. As surmised, it had been an automotive shop. Leaving it in the same condition was a condition of the lease, and the previous firm had in fact cleaned up the rear yard, and no, there had been no big black car in there on his most recent inspection of about a month previously.

The phone company confirmed this. No phone for the last few months. As for heat and light, it was useful when showing to prospects, as the landlord said, and with a whole row of units, it was easy enough to allow just enough heat to keep the pipes from freezing. A small price to pay, as he said.

As for the lock, Alphonse had his theory.

“They did what I did, Gilles. They cut it off, or picked the lock. Considering who, or what they are, that last part is not out of the question. All they have to do then, is to go off up the street to the nearest hardware store and buy another lock.” Five or ten francs would do it.

Five or ten francs would do it.

“I would have bought the lock beforehand, somewhere far off across town.”

Alphonse nodded at the logic.

“True.”

To pull up and do the lock would take a minute. It would be better than walking up with bolt cutters inside a long coat. The vehicle itself would give good cover. All it took was balls…and a reason. Small, lock-picking tools could go down the nearest sewer, something not as easy with bolt-cutters.

“It’s not like they actually had to do anything there. It would be the work of five minutes just to stash the car.” After killing Vachon.

He didn’t say it.

“Or, the car might have been there for some time.” The problem there, was how or why to lead the cops to it—unless they had known ahead of time. “The street door has a spring latch…”

Set the lock and slam it behind you, and that was about it. There was a keyed deadbolt above it, a separate installation, but their perpetrators hadn’t been too worried about security. But when and why? The window of opportunity was pretty long in this event, as he called it.

If they had known about the lunch date in time, for example. It was possible Vachon had been frequenting the place, but why him? Unless it had something to do with Gilles—

“Ah.” It still all came down to the question of why.

“Here’s another thing. Assuming they drop the car, how do they get away? Now we’re looking for witnesses, we’re looking for any clue as to some other vehicle…” Alphonse trailed off.

It was all just more bullshit.

Gilles grunted.

“Sure. You pull up, open the lock, park inside. Jump in a similar car. Go out, lock up, and drive away.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that.” Alphonse was sort of impressed, but Gilles had a damned quick mind.

“Hmn.” Gilles thought.

It was the right people—he knew that. It was the right people, planting the wrong car, as for why, or why not, that was hard to say. But they seemed to have a pretty good handle on how the police worked, how they thought. What they might be likely to find out, sooner or later. They knew who his friends were, maybe.

If nothing else, they seemed to have a pretty good idea of how to beat a court case, if it ever really came down to that.

If only they had the time—

If only they had the time.

If only he had the patience.

Patience is a virgin, as Hector had once said.

***