Louis Shalako

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.

***

Alphonse in full cringe mode.

END

Chapter Twenty-Three.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

Chapter Twenty-Six.

Chapter Twenty-Seven.

Chapter Twenty-Eight.

Chapter Twenty-Nine.

Louis has books and stories on iTunes.

See his art on Fine Art America.

Check out the #superdough blog, for example, Grocery Flyers and Price Pulsing: an Analysis.

Thank you for reading.

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 One.

Chapter Two.