 |
| Hector was an artist... |
Louis Shalako
No sooner had Gilles
arrived back at the office, after instructing the cabbie to take the scenic
route, perhaps the result of a three-beer lunch, when the phone had rung. The
voice was dry in his ear.
Vachon was dead.
“What? What?”
“I’m afraid so, Gilles.”
There seemed to be no doubt.
It was like a punch in
the guts, or worse—
“Where.”
The location was an
alley—his throat in a knot, as he stood before the city map, but it seemed like
it could only be a few steps away from their rendezvous.
“Er, who is this speaking,
please.” The officer told him for the third time, and for the third time, he
didn’t remember it.
“Yes, sir. The victim was
dragged in off the street. There is no doubt it’s him, sir. His cameras are
smashed. Two big ones and a smaller one. Rolls of film pulled out and exposed
to the light. There’s no sign of robbery, otherwise. He still had the wallet, a
few francs. He still has all of his identification, including a press card.”
The bag, slashed apart, the side pockets torn off…
His old friend.
Killed by a quick blow to
the head, and then strangulation. It would have been all too quick.
Gilles sat there in
shock, and yet there was a case, many cases, and now this.
Hector was dead, killed
not three blocks away from where they had had lunch, and all Maintenon had was
a real cold spot in the guts…and a roll of film, quickly pressed into his hand
while the going was good.
“Other than that, sir,
witnesses report a big, black car in the neighbourhood, quite out of place for
this particular, ah, vicinity. Sir.”
***
“It was a privilege to do
this, Inspector.” The film tech had followed his instructions, knowing that
Vachon and Gilles went way back. “Hopefully we can nail these guys. I’ve done a
couple of things here. I blew them all up to the largest format. I’ve done a
handful of smaller ones, the ten-by-fifteen centimetre format. I’ve cropped out
some of the background and gone with the twenty-by-twenty-eight centimetre.
Hector, ah, did a total of six shots, not including one under the table which
was probably accidental. In order to load film, one sets a tab into a slot,
gentlemen, and the camera body is closed. This bit of film is already exposed,
so the photographer advances the film, which involves cranking and clicking on
a few frames. He may have just been making sure.”
“Understood.” Levain
prodded a bit, as Maintenon was pretty damned somber.
“Well, he’s got Gilles
coming in through the room. Still got your hat on, right? One hand reaching up
for the buttons on your coat. And you didn’t catch it, ah, sir. You’re a bit
farther away, perhaps moving a bit quickly, looking around for your friend; and
that one is just slightly fuzzy in the focus. These other ones are
award-winning shots, if you think of the actualité,
the candid portrait of unsuspecting people going about their daily lives. And
then there’s this one.”
He handed over what the
English-speaking world would call an eight-by-ten glossy, the blacks very dark
indeed, but the whites were good and all real detail in greys that ran from
rich and dense to pale and ephemeral.
That face. Those eyes.
That look. Those eyes, and that look—staring directly into the camera, or
perhaps just slightly above. Just slightly above, where the slightly-satirical
face of Hector, caught in the act, would have been all too recognizable, all
too obvious, as a man with a camera who has just shot your picture…and yet at
the same time, Hector had been unaware. He’d been too focused on catching all
the action, too busy cranking it over for another shot.
It was all in the eyes.
“Here’s Baille.” Levain
had been watching Maintenon’s interview through the one-way glass, and there
was little doubt it was him.
“The other one, these are
mostly profile or at best, a three-quarters shot. My assistant will run off any
number of copies, any sizes that you want. Just say the word.” The technician
trailed off.
Maintenon seemed fixed in
place.
Levain cleared his
throat…
“Er, yes, thank you.
We’ll let you know.”
Maintenon stared into
those eyes.
They were the eyes of a
fanatic, or perhaps they were just the eyes of a thoroughly dangerous man.
***
It was Monday morning.
“Well. We have a lot to
get through, ladies and gentlemen.”
The room was silent, curlicues of smoke
eddying up from one too many cigarettes.
“We have cruel obsessions
and pathological hatreds.”
Joseph was just lighting
up a cigar the size of his midget forearm, and within two minutes, someone
would get up and open a window—not yet, but soon.
“The vehicle has been
identified, as a Mercedes SSK, this one has custom coachwork described as long,
low, lean and aerodynamic. We have a dead newspaper photographer—” The room was
very quiet.
Maintenon soldiered on,
almost in spite of himself.
“We have some possibility
of a Fascist, perhaps even full-blooded Nazi, disruption of socialist and
communist, perhaps even the sort of Catholic-Social-Democrat parties…one
wonders what it’s all about,
otherwise.”
He went on.
“Tailler and his people
have planted bugs in pretty much all of their offices. Not unnaturally, this
results in reams and reams of material, all of which has to be gone through,
and ninety-nine-point-nine-nine-nine percent of which is not only immaterial,
but exhaustively mundane.”
None of it really
mattered, it was all household accounts and membership drives and following up
subscriptions gone into arrears.
Again, none of it really
meant anything. That being said, they had lists of names—Army generals who at
least subscribed to the magazines, the periodicals. Some of them, dues-paying
members of this party, or that party, or some other party. Some of them had
made political contributions; one wondered what other contributions they might
have made, and what form those contributions might have taken…
“One wonders, what
Monsieur Baille was doing with the gentlemen in question, or what might have
been the subject under discussion. It is however, safe to say that Victor
hasn’t been home, nor seen at work or the offices of the party, since the
decease of, ah…our good friend and colleague, Hector…Vachon.”
He consulted his notes.
“Ah. Here’s a good one.”
He sighed. “Who invited a German diplomat to the convocation of the Academy of
Police Studies? No one, no one that has spoken up. The fact is, a bunch of
invitations are mailed out, mostly to institutions, not all of them to a
specific name, and only so many of them show up. Whether he was actually there,
that is one very good question, but if not him, then who? Or did he just get
the gist of it out of the paper, and make a conventional compliment.”
At this point, his
instincts were killing him.
“We have our list. So
far, officers are following up, but no one on this list has been reported
missing, or killed, or whatever.”
A semi-circle of sober
eyes regarded him in an almost uncanny silence.
“One more thing. Saulnier
hasn’t been home, that is to say, to the lady’s house since the beginning of
this case. That is suggestive. Cariveau—that ship is due to arrive in
Valparaiso any day now. You could say he hasn’t been home either. Some of the
others might turn up in due time, and then there is Hector. And we have another
victim to follow up on.” Their interview with Monsieur Sauvage at the Croix de
Feu party headquarters had been inconclusive at best, with both sides trading
barbs but also information—perhaps something would come of it, but Sauvage was
denying all knowledge of any particular person who may have simply stopped
showing up at party meetings.
That part was
understandable enough, how could anyone keep track of them all anyways…
There was a murmur, and
he was on the verge of losing his audience.
“Confidence is everything,
ladies (or lady) and gentlemen. Patience now—patience is everything else.”
It was like they all sort
of relaxed and let go, all at once.
And that, would have to
do.
It was the beginning of
another day in the homicide business, and he had no choice but to let them go—
A phone rang, and Margot
picked up.
“Your car is out front.”
He nodded.
It was time to pay one
last visit.
***
.jpg) |
| "I know it's a shitty time, Gilles." |
The phone rang again,
just as he was buttoning the top button…
“Gilles. I know this is a
bad time. Vachon—Hector, was a friend of yours, and a very good friend.”
Maintenon bit back his
impatience, his mood as black as all hell.
“Yes, sir.”
“Hector took my picture
and interviewed me. Just when I took this position—he made me look good for a
magazine spread, all about the new face, a kinder, gentler face, of modern
policing.”
“I understand, sir.”
Fuck.
“It’s a bit above the
call of duty. Bad timing, and all of that. And yet, my instinct tells me.”
“What are we talking
about, Roger.”
“Gilles. It’s a public
relations thing, and I know how pressed for time you are, as we all are these
days…”
Gilles reached up to undo
the top button.
Merde.
***
END
Images. Likely stolen from the internets.
Louis has
books and stories on Amazon.
He’s got an
audiobook.
See his art on Fine Art
America.
Thank you for reading.
.JPG)
.jpg)
.JPG)
