The Art of Murder

by Louis Shalako

  Where there was an alley, a tangle of fire escapes loomed, hanging overhead in invisible threat. The windows up high along the alleys were smaller in comparison to the ones out front. They seemed lonely and isolated. It was easy enough to interpret them as hallways, a small bathroom, or maybe some child’s bedroom, although it was late. It was almost as easy to imagine them a garret, with an avid painter, or a poet, struggling to make a go of it in an uncertain profession where there was much pretension and even more competition, and where cash money was more priceless than true love. The moon popped in and out of sight behind yet another black cloud. He paced along, feeling guilty of a momentary truancy or some other nameless sin.

  The sky opened up and a thick, heavy mist began to fall straight down. He knew this weather, the kind of spring rain that would drench the valley of the Seine and move slowly across the terrain. The creeks and rivers would barely rise. It would all be absorbed by the land, and sucked up by the sewers, and the river would be muddy and brown for days.

  Later the colour would change to something a little more pleasing, green and glassy, but at this time of year, Paris was subject to as many grey, wet days as the highly-romanticized sunny ones. The nights were still long, and a chill wind could whip up out of the northwest on a whim.

  Tonight was mild, warm and close, and now very wet.

  There was a car idling by the side of the road ahead, and he saw a man and a woman inside. The interior light was on, and their heads were close and intimate. The light was switched off and the crunch of gears came. Their heads were black silhouettes, sparsely illuminated by the distant street-lamps. They moved slowly off up the street, with the vehicle hesitating at the first intersection. There was much you could guess, so much you could read into it, but they were just an anonymous couple, perhaps going home after an evening visit with friends or some lonely and decrepit old relative. It was all up to the imagination, and a need for human contact. It was loneliness and longing, emotional transference, and applied sentiment. His feelings were understandable, he supposed. He would always be an outsider. He would remain isolated.

  On a nearby block, there were horns and distant shouts and the sounds of vehicles moving. It was a stream of life over there, but here and now on this street it was very quiet. It was a moment to savour, in a way. He wasn’t tired, although for one thing he was aware that he hadn’t been eating properly lately. He wasn’t uncomfortable. The emptiness in his gut was nothing compared to the emptiness in his life, the sickness in his soul.

  Behind him, there was the sound of another vehicle rounding the corner from a side street. Light washed over him from its headlights, throwing the blocks of flats and shops into a new and harsher light.

  He thought he heard a car door open up, and he thought that wasn’t right somehow as the vehicle still seemed to be accelerating in a low gear.

  “Slow down, you stupid bastard.” The shout came over his left shoulder and he wondered if they were speaking to him.

  Startled, he turned to see what they were talking about, and who they were talking to, and that was when he saw the bare-headed man in a long black coat standing on the running boards, braced against the wide-open door, and holding something that looked suspiciously like a machine pistol in his right hand. When the arm came up and the man took careful aim in an unmistakable motion, the end lit up and the air was split by a rapping sound that bounced and echoed off the walls all around. Gilles flung himself to the ground, desperately trying to scrabble his way under a parked vehicle.

  Unfortunately it was a small two-seater, with a removable fabric top. Hot lead spat and sang off the ground and punched through the bodywork as if it was a wicker basket, while Gilles clutched his hands up around his head and waited for the hit that would take him out.

  “Go, go, go!” There was a final burst, and the sports-car rocked on its chassis, while fluids splashed out onto the street a few feet away from holes punctured in a radiator and other places.

  Gilles popped up on his knees, brought up his own 7.65 millimetre pistol, and began pulling the trigger as fast as he could. Even as he did, he saw that the street had a bit of a bend in it, and that there were houses along there with lit windows. Sparks flew off the street where his rounds were going. They showed he was low and behind at first, and then one for sure went way ahead, and so he pulled down after taking a more careful bead, trying to lead by shooting at the front end of the vehicle in spite of the extreme angle. He had the weapon pointed just ahead and above the corner of the windshield, but the damned gun jerked around so much. He grunted in anger and tried again.

  The snap of rounds hitting the metal trunk lid confirmed the accuracy of his shooting, but he didn’t think he had done any good, as the man had awkwardly scrambled back in and the swaying vehicle zoomed up an incline at the end of the block. The glare of brake lights indicated a right turn. There was a squeal of tires, and the sound of an engine under stress finally faded about three or four blocks away.

  Gilles stood panting, blinking sweat out of his eyes, and cursing with precision. He put the gun up and dropped the spent clip into his jacket pocket. He re-loaded. A second car with another machine-pistol would be fatal right about now.

  The vehicle was almost certainly stolen, but he had some vague impression of a couple of letters from the license plate.

  “Argh.” In the distance, dogs barked, people shouted and there were running footsteps, for fools rush in where angels fear to tread. “Nom de Dieux.”

  He put the gun away. Dogs barked all around him, but they were all either on chains or behind fences and walls.

  “What in the hell was that all about?” Who they were or why they had tried to hit him was a question he would very much like to answer.

  It wasn’t exactly unprecedented, but even for the busy Paris underworld, it was a little unusual. Loud voices, frightened voices, came from above and across the street, as an apartment window or two opened cautiously and dim faces peered down. Hopefully there was a phone about and someone would call the gendarmes momentarily.

  He must have pissed off somebody somewhere pretty badly. Someone with a lot of pull, in all the wrong places.

  ***

  Guy Lenormand studied Gilles closely. The Inspector didn’t appear to be too badly in shock, although a lot of people would have been hysterical.

  “The last three digits were oh-one-three.” Gilles sat in the passenger seat of an official car as other officers dug around inside storefronts, stepping carefully on the shattered glass that littered the pavements and the interiors.

  They were looking for slugs, of course, and it was all pointless, except that once in a while they caught a break. To match a slug with a weapon in this type of incident would be very pleasing, but unlikely. The weapons were probably already disposed of, and of course there were interchangeable barrels. That would be the mark of a pro.

  “Did you get a look at the driver?” Guy had pretty much wrung him out, respectfully of course, but Gilles was a trained observer and he had some hopes.

  “No. It all happened so fast. I’ve heard it so many times, but it’s true enough. All I can say is that it appeared to be a male, possibly in his early thirties. He was clean shaven and had no hat, although he may have taken it off in the car.”

  “Anything else?”

  “I think the driver was wearing a dark suit. Bah. He had on a white shirt and a dark tie, but that is just an impression.” Gilles tried to visualize it all as it had happened. “The tie was dark. Bah.”

  He was saving the best part for last.

  “There was a woman in the back seat.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Yes. She seemed to sit up and gape, all wide-eyed and terrified when the shots came. She might have been asleep or drunk. Her hand flew up to her mouth.” Gilles chewed on his lip. “As an act, or as a diversion, or what I don’t know, it doesn’t make any sense. Bringing an innocent girl along, or any useless person, doesn’t make much sense either.�
��

  “Yes, I see what you mean.” Lenormand put his notebook away. “No one saw anything, although pretty much everyone we have canvassed admits to hearing it. Strange neighbourhood. It’s right on the brink, you know?”

  Gilles thought knew what he meant.

  “Ah.”

  Lenormand meant that the area was in decline, and the prognosis was not so good. It would likely get worse before it got better.

  “What’s the problem?” Lenormand shook his head.

  “The usual thing. Not enough money, or not enough love to go around.” He sighed.

  “I see.” Gilles shrugged, not so much expressively, as out of a sense of pure futility. “Yes. There is always that.”

  “And you, my friend, need to go home and get some sleep. I’ll have one of the men drive you. Hell, I’ll drive you myself. And I would advise…” Lenormand reached for the key, as it was his personal automobile.

  He had been called at home in the middle of the night, but he seemed very fresh and alert.

  “You would advise me to do all the same things that I would advise any victim in similar circumstances to do.” Gilles would be a little more careful from then on. “I will watch my back, n’est pas?”

  He twirled a fez hat in his hands, just another incongruity. The prevalent theory, made up on the spot, was that it was connected. The thing had been found jammed under the car immediately to the left of where Gilles had been cowering. While it was certainly possible that it had been there for some time, the thing was brand-new and fairly dry when it was recovered. The inference seemed obvious that it was taken off in the car by the gunman or another occupant, and that it must have spilled out when the thug opened up the back door to take the shot.

  Human beings being what they were, Gilles had politely offered no theories, but his mind was caught up in thoughts of window dressing. There was a distinct possibility.

  Lenormand’s lips flattened in a thin line.

  “I want you to take this seriously.” He turned and gave Gilles a stern look, eye-to-eye and man-to-man. “I mean that.”

  He drove along steadily, checking the mirror frequently.

  “This is no coincidence.” Gilles’s voice was emotionless.

  “Hah!”

  “No, seriously. It has to be connected to something big, and I have only so many cases on my desk.”

  “Too many, and that’s just the truth.” Lenormand took his eyes off the dimly lit street for a moment. “And this is the slow season.”

  The remark had no irony in it. It was just a fact. The pre-dawn light coming from the east and the lights of the dashboard lit up his features, throwing them into cold relief.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I have two new cases, and who knows, probably more tomorrow. But of all the ones lately, I can’t think of a single one that has that much clout. Or involves that sort of crowd.” Gilles chewed his lip some more. “As for the floater, we don’t know enough yet. That one looks like a prank. Anything else, anyone else, is just plain ludicrous.”

  Lenormand nodded, thinking along with Gilles. Most homicides were no mystery at all, in fact the reverse was usually true—a stabbing over a domestic dispute, a few drinks and a row between friends, with ten witnesses and no doubts at all about what happened. People often fled of course, and finding them quickly was the real challenge. That took proper detective work, and a lot of it sometimes.

  “And that leaves?”

  “Just one real possibility, Guy, just one.”

  Lenormand rounded a corner, his big peasant hands resting lightly on the wheel. Just a few blocks ahead lay the side street where Maintenon lived. As they approached, a couple of pedestrians arrived at the intersection. The city was either waking up or hadn’t fully gone to bed yet. There were always the night people. He assumed it to be true of any major city.

  “Interesting.”

  “Yes. Very much so.” Gilles gave a short, sharp nod of decision. “Right, then. If that’s the way you want it.”

  He was no longer talking to Guy Lenormand, although he was the only one there. Gilles let himself out and stood looking off contemplatively into nothing and nowhere.

  “Good night, Gilles.” With a sardonic grin, and a quick check of the mirrors, Lenormand put it in gear and drove away.

  Finally Gilles dug around in his pockets for his key, still lost in thought although much calmer now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Gilles endured a fitful sleep

  Gilles endured four or five hours of the most fitful sleep, constantly tossing from side to side and trying to convince himself that he was going to drop off in the very next minute. To focus too much on the event was a time-waster. It was a distraction. But if it was connected, there had to be some other salient points that they had missed. They weren’t asking the right questions yet.

  Adrenalin took some time to be absorbed back into the body. As his thoughts raced back and forth, searching his memory for clues, it was surprising how easy it was to frighten himself all over again.

  After a time he got out of bed, and as the chill dawn sky gradually paled, he lay on his left side on the couch, forearm held straight up to keep the smoke out of his eyes, his mind racing with the permutations. If only he could find the classic framework, for there was nothing new under the sun. The attempt on his life did not come out of the blue. It came from somewhere, and almost inevitably, it would spiral out of control. The investigation would draw manpower, cost the department hundreds if not thousands of man-hours, and would come up with nothing. Nowhere on his list was there the sort of case that involved anyone remotely likely to have this much power. But if so, was it political? If Gilles was nothing more than a symbol, what was he a symbol of? Authority, unwanted and unloved, perceived as oppressive? Was he simply available? Was it a spur of the moment, crime of opportunity? If so, what was the purpose, except to send a message?

  He and Andre had visited the club, and then shortly thereafter, someone tried to kill him. The logic was inescapable, and yet he hated assumptions. It was very difficult not the see the two events as connected.

  He prayed for the night to end and for the dawn to come, if only so he could occupy his mind with some tangible actions. There was a time to think, and a time for physicality.

  At some point, he was aware that he might be sleeping, and then he was awake again. The room was bright, with hot sunshine beating across the floor, and he started up off the couch with a bang, wondering if he might be late. It was all right, he had just enough time by the clock on the mantel, its soft yet insistent ticking oblivious to mere mortal concerns.

  He was at his desk by seven-thirty and Andre drifted in ten or twelve minutes later. Predictably, he had already heard the news. The others turned up right on time or even a little early.

  “So what do you think, Inspector?” It was Henri, puffed-up with righteous indignation on behalf of the department as much as his boss.

  Now that his life was under threat Gilles wondered if Henri would pay a little more attention to rank-based propriety, but alas, it was not to be.

  “I’ll bet you just about shit your pants, eh, Inspector?” Levain suppressed a growl, while Le Bref and his sidekick Emile Niguet chuckled but tried to look disapproving.

  Le Bref was a nickname for another senior detective, Robert Campon, short as he was. Henri went silent upon a look from Gilles.

  “One thing I know for sure, you would, Henri.” Levain glanced at the papers on his desk. “The big question in my mind, is where is the connection? There is relative peace between all the various political factions. You are not exactly known for any political leanings, and while a political factor can’t be ruled out, it is more likely connected to some important case, or some important personage who feels threatened. Am I right, Inspector?”

  Andre could get away with calling him Gilles away from the office, and Henri’s insubordinate behaviour could be ignored.

  “That’s all I can come up w
ith.” He heaved a deep sigh. “We still need manpower. In the absence of any better ideas, I’m at the point where we start shadowing suspects just to see what they do.”

  “We have suspects?” Le Bref’s eyebrows rose. “When did that happen?”

  “Late last night, when the Inspector was walking home.” Now Henri was championing his cause.

  Of all the nerve, but Gilles let it go.

  There came a rap at the door.

  To everyone’s astonishment, Chiappe stuck his head in.

  “Mind if I come in?”

  Gilles blew air out with a sound like a horse, and rose with alacrity, as Levain shot a look at Henri. Henri gave up his chair for the boss, and most annoyingly went to stand at Gilles’ right side, casting shadows that fell long and awkward across the room in the light that came from the fly-specked windows behind the Inspector’s desk.

  “What’s interesting about this case is that no one has an alibi. Everyone who is anyone seems to have been there when it happened. This is almost unprecedented in the annals of crime.” Chiappe was a controversial choice for head of the Surete. “Except for Alain, of course.”

  “Sir?”

  He was always in hot water politically, often from both sides of the fence and all across the spectrum. There were whispers of corruption, but that was nothing unusual. It was an occupational hazard.

  “I’ve got a little present for you, Gilles.” Maintenon’s face went blank.

  “Yes?”

  Jean-Phillipe reached into an inner breast pocket of his expensively-tailored black suit, the bulge under his armpit moving back and forth in what would be a dead giveaway in any other place. Here it was a matter of course. What some saw as an affectation in the big boss seemed mighty practical to Gilles right about now. Gilles didn’t listen to jealous rumours, and didn’t judge the supervision any more than he had to. For the little judging he did, he needed fact, not surmise.