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Monday, April 6, 2015

Speak Softly My Love, Chapter Two.


















Louis Shalako


Speak Softly My Love


Chapter Two





Sergeant Girard and the two gendarmes went in front, lights poking ahead and off to right and left.

Gilles was at the Sergeant’s heels. His hand was in his pocket, secure in the feel of the little MAB Model D, a 7.65 mm automatic. His instinct was that it wouldn’t be needed. It was just there for moral support.

They strode into the darkness, following his route in from the sidewalk as well as Gilles could recall. 

The park was fairly large, and at the time he had been seeking the silence, the air—the smell of wet grass and dead leaves and the precious topsoil, the lifeblood of the nation as their late president had once called it in the fatuous, pompous way that politicians had.

He reached up and grabbed a shoulder. Girard was slightly taller and much heavier than Gilles. The warmth and the animal male-sweat smell was reassuring. Any self-respecting killer would have been long since gone by now, but Gilles was entertaining the notion that he might actually have surprised them in the act—either shortly after the act of murder, or perhaps right in the middle of the act of disposing of the body. He hadn’t seen any sacks, blankets or shovels, but that’s not to say they weren’t there in the darkness somewhere. His heart was doing a little trip-hammer beat and he wasn’t used to this kind of exertion. Not at his age and not for one of his constitution, which had settled into a kind of physical mediocrity with the coming of late middle-age. There was the hint, the slight burn of anger as well, lurking there under the surface. This had always been a weak point, that passion. 

But he had been looking for a nice, quiet, solitary night at home.

“It was right around here somewhere.”

His jaw dropped slightly.

“Point the light over there—”

Something light-coloured was there.

The beam caught it and the young gendarme looked over at Gilles as they all hovered there in a line.

“That’s the milk—” And the cheese. The butter.

“You’re lucky it didn’t break, Inspector.” It was a strangely unconscious remark.

He let it pass.

Reaching over, Gilles took the flash from the nearest man, who to be completely honest didn’t look like he was even shaving yet.

“What’s up, Inspector?” The gruff sergeant was as genuinely puzzled as Maintenon.

“That’s my bag—my milk…my bread. What in the hell…?”

Gilles pointed the light at the ground. They all saw it, fresh tracks still embedded in the thick grass, lush and green although the trees were denuded, bare branches overhead pale and ghostly in the night when lit from below.

“There.” There was a long depression, the grass flattened in a characteristic way, an oblong shape in the right place.

“Nobody move.”

They sure as hell weren’t going to contradict Sergeant Girard.

Gilles shook his head in amazement.

There was a long moment as he swung the beam off into the darkness. It was difficult to be sure, but he saw what might be drag marks and more footprints, faint and indistinct. The dew was uneven, and it had been a pretty dry week so far.

“Ah. With all due respect, Inspector...”

Maintenon could have sworn the sergeant growled, low and deep in his throat, but he bit off anything further. The boy stopped abruptly, as if he had been about to go on.

Gilles looked over at the youngster.

“Young man.”

“Ah, yes, sir?”

Gilles held his left palm upward, and pointed the hot glare of the light down.

There were quick intakes of breath at the sight of brown, dried blood on his palms and his cuffs.

“Sir. I withdraw my comment.”

Gilles nodded. It was a sensible enough answer.

“Sergeant.”

“Yes, Inspector?”

“I want a photographer, and more men. A lot more. Throw a cordon around the area. Stop and question anyone you see.”

The sergeant nodded.

“Antoine. Call it in.” The boy turned and pelted off, hopefully staying on their own tracks and not making a fresh set.

His heavy steps would be plain enough, being most recently made. It was unavoidable.

“Sir?”

Gilles looked at the other gendarme.

“Stay here. Don’t let anyone come near.” He looked up at Girard. “There were some young people, they came into the park. They were right about here when the girl screamed.”

Standing where he was, he used the light and tried to find their footsteps. There was a paved walkway right there and bare dirt where traffic had worn down the grass. There was a line of disturbances in the leaves, bleached a lighter colour on top but darker on the bottom.

The sergeant, who seemed the quick sort that Gilles had always admired as a young man himself, nodded and pulled out his notebook. Some of them old boys made their immediate superiors, supposedly better-educated and with allegedly advanced training, look rather sick.

Gilles shoved the light in his pocket. He lifted his hat and ran a hand through what would have been hair once.

Girard took out a pen and fell into a habitual pose of which he was supremely unaware.

“Right, sir. Perhaps you’d better start at the beginning.”

“That’s pretty much it—I tripped on a body. It can’t be more than five or ten minutes ago. And it’s not here now.”

Going right by the book, the sergeant looked at his watch, and out of reflex Gilles Maintenon did as well.

“Yes, it must have been about eight, eight-fifteen…right about then.” They needed more men.

There were more sirens on the evening breeze, and it occurred to Gilles that the young people in question had probably gone for the nearest phone, which would be helpful. Hopefully they had left a name, or maybe they would stay on the line.

Other than that, the sergeant and the others knew as much about it as he did.

***

"That's it. That's all I know."
 It was the start of a whole new day.

“That’s it?” Levain wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or not. “You stumbled on a body one minute, and then it’s gone the next?”

“Yes. That’s about the size of it.” Police had gone from door to door, combing the streets and the sidewalks trying to find anybody that might have seen something, heard something. “We have a slew of pictures, maybe, just maybe one drop of human blood on a twig ten metres from the scene…and that’s about it.”

Because the twig was on a shrub between the body and the street Gilles had come in from, they were sort of assuming a direction of travel. The body might have already been dead, if so, then where did it come from, so warm and fresh that blood from cloth and fabric had indelibly stained Gilles’ coat and shirt-sleeve to the extent that both items of clothing were now evidence, exhibits in a case.

As for the shirt. He had a clean white one in a drawer at work, a fairly rational precaution in this line of work. As for the jacket, he wouldn’t miss it particularly and could go home in his old raincoat, which hung on the rack much of the time as he had another, better one at home.

Without a body, they weren’t even sure if it was a stabbing or a shooting. Only that Gilles had stumbled on a man’s body and that he had come away with blood on his hands for it.

He’d been up half the night, the bread was ruined, and when he went to use the milk the next day it was an instant reminder of the new and intriguing mystery.

Even Tailler, with all of his brash and youthful optimism, didn’t know what to make of it.

“So we think that the Inspector either just missed the killing, perhaps a stabbing, or he narrowly missed catching the killer in the disposing of the body?”

Gilles nodded.

“That’s how it looks.” Unfortunately, no one in the neighbourhood had heard anything resembling a shot. “The blood was so fresh—and yet I certainly didn’t hear any shots.”

No one they had been able to talk to reported anything of the kind.

The store was less than two hundred fifty metres away, around one corner and there on the next.

A few potential witnesses in the vicinity had seen other people in the vicinity. Until all of them were identified and interviewed, more or less accounted-for, they had some information but nothing compelling.

No bodies were found in the park, A search of alleys and vacant lots within a six-block radius, which seemed about the ultimate physical and psychological limit, had revealed nothing. Gilles might have heard a car start if it was close by. If so, he recalled nothing of the sort, and with the busy night sounds of the city, anything over a couple of blocks would be completely subconscious in a manner of speaking.

The press had already gotten hold of the story. It had all the earmarks of a nine-day wonder, with headlines dragging a huge tale of question marks and showing mostly pictures of him, the empty park in daylight and one or two locals lucky enough to be interviewed. It was the usual bunch, none of them had seen anything but they lived right there and were foolish enough, vain enough or starved for attention enough to answer the door when the press came pounding.

Levain made a face.

“Well, it’s Girard’s case now. Whoever’s in charge over there.” He looked over at Tailler in humour. 

“They must love you right about now, Gilles.”

"They love you right about now, Gilles."
Gilles nodded.

“Yes. Without a body, and my face all over the front pages. They've got all the attention and nothing much to show for it. Not even the glamour."

“Without a body, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.” Tailler was right about that. “Still, you would think it must turn up somewhere.”

Gilles sat down heavily on the front corner of his desk. He still hadn’t taken his hat off yet.

He looked at Tailler, one of their better acquisitions. The young fellow was learning, and under the steadying hand of Levain and the older men, his natural intuitiveness was being tempered with some solid investigative skills.

“Not necessarily.”

Gilles’ eyes slid from one side to the other. He had a full case-load of his own, nothing really interesting but it was there, stacked up neatly along the front of his desk, and if truth be told, on the long shelf behind it as well. Much of it was routine, some of it was cold and dead, and yet there were things he might conceivably work on. Huge chunks of time were blocked out due to court commitments.

For whatever reason, it was just a busy time.

Resolutely reaching up and removing his hat, he sent the battered black fedora sailing in the general direction of the hat-rack.

It missed, bounced off and then slid down the far wall where it came to rest on top of yet more files. 

Tailler casually picked it up and hung it up for him as Gilles nodded his thanks.

“Coffee, Inspector?”

Gilles nodded, with a look at Levain, who shook his head. Tailler grabbed the pot, turned and left the room looking for hot water.

Gilles, as might be expected, was lost in thought.

There were only so many ways that one could game it out—there were only so many things that could have happened. Things were linked and related. As soon as you had a body, you had a killer or a natural cause, an accident perhaps. If you have blood, a human or other body has been punctured somewhere and somehow. One thing followed logically from another.

It could only be one or the other. As soon as someone moved the body, you had a plot—and so it went on. There had to be a logical train of events.

Or something like that.

As for the canvas of the neighbourhood, word got around and maybe someone with some information would turn up.

It was just a regular day.

His phone was ringing already.


END


Oh, wow. Looks like you can get The Art of Murder free from Google Play.  



Speak Softly My Love, Chapter One. Maintenon Mystery Number Five.










Louis Shalako


Speak Softly My Love


Chapter One





It all started with a litre of milk. Or rather, the lack of one.

He’d run out completely. It was only Thursday. Shopping day was Saturday. 

Madame Lefebvre had laid in a fair supply of groceries before heading off on her annual one week’s vacation with her sister in Orleans. He wasn’t short of food exactly, just milk. He wasn’t expecting to see her before Monday.

Gilles didn’t drink much milk, not being a big cereal eater, not being a big fan of oatmeal and porridge and the like. His routine was to have at least two cups of coffee in the morning. Lately the caseload was such that nothing much had been happening to disturb the even flow of his morning.

He should have left a note for the milkman, really, but he was unfamiliar with the routine of his own household.

To have a little milk in the house might save him from a day that began badly. At work, they’d have him running his legs off all day long, with no chance of getting off his feet. Rushing out first thing, finding a familiar place and then queueing up for it, and then finding a place to drink it, would never be his first choice. He wasn’t that sociable to begin with, and the fact was Maintenon felt like a walk. 

The milk was merely his excuse.

It was good to walk alone sometimes.

It was a fine clear night in early September. The moon was up but high clouds obscured it in some places. The dark sky to the north revealed stark glittering stars down low, in among the branches, the rooftops and the chimneys. He walked softly, preferring to hear other people first, which meant that he had an option…

The park was coming up. Gilles wasn’t particularly worried, although the difference between night and day could be profound. This wasn’t such a bad neighbourhood. Not being a young man he had nothing to prove—as an older individual maybe a little something to fear. The statistics were clear enough.

He was also armed and wasn’t afraid to use it, which made a big difference.

The fragile, hence doubled-up paper bags tucked under his left arm, Gilles turned onto the grass and soft wet leaves halfway in between streetlights. It was a habitual cut-through. There weren’t too many people about. At this exact hour, most were either at home having dinner, or had already gone out for supper, dinner, dancing or the show. Whatever. An entirely different crowd would be out a little later, when the more prosperous victims were coming home again. They would be mellow and off-guard, with full bellies and as often as not a skin-full of good wine aboard.

It was very dark under the old oaks and beeches, there were shadows strewn everywhere and every which way, but the ground was level underfoot and benches and flowerbeds were easy enough to avoid. Flowerbeds were, with their rick black humus, even darker than the grass. They were topped by dormant shrubs and those stalks which were trimmed or clipped but not totally collapsed in the way certain perennials might do—horticulture being a bit of a foreign subject to Maintenon.

When he stumbled across the body, Gilles fell flat on his face, dropping the bloody milk and putting his hands out quickly in an effort to save himself from falling right in somebody’s open mouth.


“Merde!”

Forgetting the milk, he was up in a jiffy.

“Damnation.” There was something warm and sticky on his hand, after he touched the body again in the general centre of the body mass.

It confirmed what he already knew.

He was half bent over, trying to get a good look. The only thing he could properly see was that pale oval face, and the deeper black mass of the body, a dark suit blocking out the lighter coloured leaves, but darker than the wet green grass. It was a formless shape, a body nevertheless.

The moon came out fully from behind the thin cloud layer and that’s when he got a good look at the fellow.

“Merde.”

He stood staring down at a slender male of indeterminate age, high thirties possibly. The man looked to be about average height. He was a handsome enough, clean shaven. It might have been a kind, a gentle face once, curiously unlined. Was that grey at the temples or a trick of the light?  The eyes were wide and staring, the hair tousled and lanky. The body was still warm, the blood still wet and he was a police officer.

With a quick nod at nothing at all, Gilles left the milk, the cheese, the butter and the fresh baguettes where they lay.

Turning, he sprinted back towards the light.

The sooner he called this one in, the better. There was barely a chance, but that body was still warm.

***

Inspector Gilles Maintenon lived in the city’s 14th arrondissement. A running man drew attention, and there were curious looks from an obviously-married pedestrian couple as he pelted back to the corner store where he had bought his miserable little purchases.

Jamming coins in, he dialed an all too familiar number.

“Who?” Dispatchers never wasted a second.

“Inspector Gilles Maintenon. Hurry. The body’s still warm for Christ’s sakes.”

“All right, Inspector Maintenon. We have units on the way. You say this is in the Park Montsouris?”

“Yes, it’s off the path and away from the lights.”

“All right then.” The dispatcher was calm and cool when Gilles could only wish. “You had better wait on the sidewalk then.”

“I’ll be on the Rue Gazan. Near the lake.” Pond might be a better word.

The dispatcher was speaking into their microphone and he waited on the line.

“Right. You live right there, don’t you, Inspector?”

“Yes, I went out for milk. I cut through the park on the way home.”

“Very well, Inspector. We’ll have some people with you shortly.”

Gilles hung up the phone. He was a little shaken. There was little else he could do. It wasn’t an insult, it was just coincidence. The odds against finding a body on your evening walk were astronomical. 

Quite frankly this was the first time it had ever happened to him and he hoped it would be the last.

Let other people find the damned things.

For crying out loud!

It was distressing. It gave him a new perspective—civilians found bodies all the time and the police were often quite cross when they muffed it up. They disturbed the body or left their own soda bottles, candy-wrappers, cigarette butts and footprints all over the place. The worst one in his recollection had been a cub journalist. He worked for some socialist weekly down south, and he was just in Paris for the day or something…the seventh congress, the popular front. The freaking Communist International. For crying out loud. He’d had found himself a body and then spent what seemed like hours photographing it before phoning it in to police. That one left a complete circle of footprints around the body, taking pictures from every angle and carefully bracketing his shots as he subsequently explained.

Looking back, Gilles couldn’t quite recall, but he might have seen one or two on the front page. 

The guy might have made a few francs out of it.

He looked at Madame Foubister, on duty most evenings in the small, slightly unkempt but always cheerful little store on the corner. He lived a few short blocks away and there was a kind of warmth, a kind of friendship or friendliness at least, that he had learned to appreciate very much since Ann’s passing. No doubt she, and the lady standing goggle-eyed with her, had heard every word, which meant the next customer and the next, and the one after that would also hear every word.

“Ah, yes, Monsieur?”

He repressed a sigh, there being nothing he could do about it. It was only human nature, and anything further would only add fuel to the fire.

“Good evening, Madame. Thank you, there is nothing to be alarmed about.”

She waved as he made his way out the door, brushing past more customers on their way in.

***

Gilles made his way back to the point where he had first entered the park. He found a pool of light under a lamp-post. On the chill evening air, the cry of the sirens came from somewhere not too far away.

He shook his head. Two young people were coming down the street from the northeast, a male and a female. Before they got to him, they turned. They were holding hands and giggling as they entered the park. His mouth opened. They were too far away, and it was already too late. There were scattered lights in there and he watched them. Voices traveled across in front of him from left to right. Their shadows swept across like the second hand of a clock and he sighed deeply. He was pretty sure the body was right along there…

A scream confirmed it. The girl was hysterical.

The young man’s voice was high but loud, cursing and swearing and saying it was an abomination.

He called out.

“Please don’t disturb the body.”

There was nothing but silence and then came the sound of voices. The girl was crying and the young man was holding her close as the pair came out of the darkness, seeking his authoritative voice. As soon as they saw him, a non-descript middle-aged man, standing a little too close to a dead man and seemingly somehow involved, the pair turned and bolted off to the southeast.

“Excuse me—please.” The young man gave an angry look back, and putting their heads down, the pair ran off up the street.

Innocent. That was his first impression, and first impressions are lasting ones. Neither one of them was wearing a coat. There was little doubt they were from the neighbourhood. Hopefully they could be located quickly, although they probably knew nothing. Just what they had seen, and no more.

A loud engine and stabbing headlights careened around the corner and roared up the street from the north.

A carload of uniformed gendarmes screeched to a halt right in front of him. The driver stayed in the car and the other two got out. The driver had the microphone up, reporting their on-scene status.

“Inspector Maintenon?”

“Yes.”

“Sergeant Girard. I understand you have a discovered a body? A dead one?”

“That’s the usual description, Sergeant Girard.” Gilles lifted an arm like a tour guide. “Step right this way, please.”

The officers snapped on their torches and followed him across the dewy grass, and a moment later he was rewarded with the sight of his own footprints...presumably. They were the only obvious ones along there. They should lead straight to the scene of the crime.


END 





Thanks for having a read. > Louis