Blessed Are the Humble

By Louis Shalako

It was a crime of pure arrogance. Madame Muriel Ducharme was murdered in what looks like a break-in gone wrong. It’s a little too pat for Inspector Gilles Maintenon. Nothing appears to have been taken, but the killer has thought of that too.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Louis Shalako
• Release date: Nov 19, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310981296

Louis Shalako

Louis Shalako is the founder of Long Cool One Books and the author of twenty-two novels, numerous novellas and other short stories. Louis studied Radio, Television and Journalism Arts at Lambton College of Applied Arts and Technology, later going on to study fine art. He began writing for community newspapers and industrial magazines over thirty years ago. His stories appear in publications including Perihelion Science Fiction, Bewildering Stories, Aurora Wolf, Ennea, Wonderwaan, Algernon, Nova Fantasia, and Danse Macabre. He lives in southern Ontario and writes full time. Louis enjoys cycling, swimming and good books.

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Blessed Are the Humble

Louis Shalako

This Smashwords edition copyright 2014 Louis Shalako and Long Cool One Books

Design: J. Thornton

ISBN  978-1-310981296

The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to any person living or deceased, or to any places or events, is purely coincidental. Names, places, settings, characters and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. The author’s moral right has been asserted.

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Chapter One

The Killing of Muriel Ducharme

Dawn was breaking over the eastern horizon as the city came to life. Paris buzzed with early traffic. There were shouts, horns, church and tram bells, and the roar of bus exhausts.

The window farthest from her bed was open. Cheerful yellow chintz curtains bellied and luffed and were again becalmed. Birds chirped and sang as they only do at a certain special time, when they are just back from Africa or Spain and are in a rush to claim a home and begin another brood.

Muriel Ducharme steadied herself before attempting to dress. The room was chill after removing her night-clothes.

The clock on the wall read six-twenty-two a.m. It meant nothing, only that another day had begun. The habits of a lifetime were impossible to break. The doctor had once suggested she could take it easy and sleep in, if only on a Saturday. She found it impossible and had spoken almost sharply to the doctor about such nonsensical ideas.

When she got really tired or had one of her dizzy spells, she would sit in a chair and doze lightly for a few minutes. The snickers and indulgent remarks of the maids meant nothing. They treated her like a little old lady, and perhaps that was just. That much she could accept. She could still hear people speaking in the background. The maids and the cook had gotten used to it. They didn’t make a fuss or take much notice, although they might be a little careful of what they said. The help could be a mite too talkative at times. It wasn’t that she didn’t care for them on some human level, but they must know their places or they would soon get out of hand. It wasn’t like she could ever be friends with them, although the environment a real house created was and should be intimate and friendly for all concerned.

She dressed herself carefully, used to the chill of dawn. The morning routine hardly varied, changing into clean underwear, sturdy if plain, choosing which housedress to wear this fine Monday. The murmur outside of the set of three windows, the light and air of her boudoir was enjoyable in itself. Her mind was ahead on the tasks of the day.

They’d gone without coal much of the time in the War, and no one died or froze to death. They just put on another blanket or two, and wore sweaters and coats if necessary. A smile crossed her face at some of the memories. It was in the nature of seventy-seven year-old ladies that their minds jumped about a bit, but she didn’t mind that at all. It made life interesting. That was important at her age. She had done without a lot of things, as had they all, which made her present fortune all the more bearable.

The only thing worse than getting old, was not getting old.

The best revenge lay in living a good life.

Her boys had been lucky to have such a good house to live in and food to eat and beds to sleep in. They would never lack for anything, and yet people could be so selfish, so stupid.

Her thoughts could be very bleak sometimes.

It was, as often as not, first thing in the morning when that happened.

She must phone someone somewhere and lay in the fish for Friday. Last week it had been atrocious. That fish came from Monsieur Normand’s. Normally she sent a girl out for it on Wednesdays, however they would have to find another place. Not after the way Monsieur Normand’s assistant spoke to her. She buttoned her dress firmly all the way to the top and also habitually, found a loop of clean elastic ribbon to hold her grey hair in the severe bun she had affected since long before her husband’s passing almost thirty-four years ago. The dress, a faded royal blue one today, hung almost to the floor, leaving only the fronts of her feet exposed. It was almost a reflex to take up her rosary and put it around her neck.

She stood in front of the mirror, over which was a crucifix. Bowing her head, she said the first prayer of the day. It would not be the last. The world was very wicked, or perhaps it was just some of the people in it, and one couldn’t be too careful when it came to one’s soul. It was a sign of humility to pray, and to pray barefoot had always seemed the best way. It was different in church of course, all those feet with all those warts and funguses—sometimes the floor was quite filthy. Even her old eyes couldn’t help but notice, but this was her home and no one kept a cleaner one as far as she knew. Thoughts like that made her feel good about the day ahead.

She sat on the good-quality reproduction Louis Quatorze chair, the left one of a pair beside a small writing desk she never used, and found her stockings as laid out the night before by Sophie, her beloved niece. She was such a beautiful child and grateful to help out around the house, which made up in part for her room and board. Not that Muriel begrudged the girl. She was just at an age and what girl wouldn’t want to see Paris? And perhaps make a suitable match, if one could be found. At seventeen and a half, her raven-headed charge was a bit young for such thoughts but that was the way it was these days, with all these newspaper-tabloids, and radio shows, and the posters in the Metro all full of sex and glamour.

How would it all end? No one could really say, and so she prayed for everything to work out.

Black, knee-high silk stockings, as she could afford it, they could be a bit of a struggle sometimes. Then came the plain brown, flat-heeled, sensible shoes. Although this pair had seen better days she wasn’t going out so they would do. It was just her, Sophie, Therese and the housemaids today.

Her heart brightened at the thought of beginning spring cleaning, although it mustn’t interfere with the normal routine. She would speak to the girls about it and let them decide.

If Olivier dropped around near lunchtime as was his wont, if he was in the neighborhood, her second-eldest son would hardly notice her shoes.

Muriel stuffed her handkerchief up into her left sleeve and pulled the curtains back to ensure the windows were fully open. The middle one had always been stiff in the guides and she must be careful not to put a crick in her back or her neck. In spite of that she leaned into it and gave it a good heave. Up it went with a groan. It was early summer and the rooms on this floor got quite stuffy as the house faced south onto the street. Big front windows admitted glaring sunlight. The sun was more directly overhead now and the narrow eaves helped some.

The whole place could use a good airing as it had been damp lately. She never could stand closed curtains. The constant throng of traffic brought life and entertainment of a kind, right into her sitting room. She would knit and listen to the radio or the gramophone, keeping a sharp eye over her world.

Snapping off the light, for electricity was very dear or so it seemed to one who had grown up without it, she left her bedroom door open and headed for the salle de bain to complete her morning toilette.

Muriel had her morning tinkle, flushed the toilet and washed her face and hands with hot water and soap. The pipes gurgled faintly behind the walls as she snapped off the light and carefully closed the door.

They rarely had visitors up here, but proprieties would be observed. It kept any suggestion of a rank smell out of the hallway and the rest of the upstairs. A plumber had once explained the phenomena, but the fix was too expensive for her liking and his air was a little too knowing.

She turned right for the servant’s stairs instead of left for the more formal main stairs. Her first stop was always the kitchen. She would stoke up the boiler, as she always said, and put the kettle on for when Therese arrived.

Pausing at the head of the stairs, she studied herself in the oval hanging mirror placed there on the wall for just such a purpose. Thoughtful, pale blue eyes with a hint of warmth and humor had always surprised her when she saw them. Her spectacles were smudged. She could see it in the mirror in the glow of the small wall-sconce. Dieu! No wonder she thought she was going blind sometimes. It was the most frustrating thing. They were almost impossible to keep clean with crabbed fingers and the tremors in the hands. The girls couldn’t be trusted with such a job.

Is that really me? She had always wondered, but the eyes were the windows into the soul, or so the poets always said.

She had looked better, but it would have to do.

Gripping the handrail firmly, with her head tipped forward and her glasses firmly in place, with the light in the stairwell snapped on, the grand old lady began making her way down the dark and narrow boards of the staircase.

***

Wheezing, her temperature slightly elevated as was her heart-beat, she came to the bottom step where she paused. The hall light was just inside the doorjamb as light spilled out into the front of the kitchen. Finding it, she turned it off as she stepped out into the room. The switch for this room was to the right, on the wall. She fumbled in the dark for it as the kitchen was at the back of the house and the dim light of pre-dawn wasn’t making much of an impression.

The walls were very thick. The silence of the morning was special somehow, also the fact that it would be a sunny day. They said it might go up to thirty degrees later in the afternoon, but this room would remain cool in spite of it all.

An unseen hand hit the switch on the far end of the room and she gasped, hand clutching at her rosary beads. She stopped and awkwardly turned, peering to see who it was. It was much too early for the cook.

Oh! Her eyes widened in shock and belatedly, real fear.

No!

The first shot hit her high in the chest, going through her hand with its pathetic beads.

She spun to the left as she fell.

Oh! Oh, Mon Dieu. She lay on the bottom of the stairs as footsteps approached, sounding cold and distant, echoing in her head which made whoosh-whooshing noises. Hail Mary, full of grace…

Her lips were moving as the second shot hit her in the back. The angle of impact and the force of the impact flung her half onto her back again. She stared up in dumb shock, unable to comprehend, let alone believe what was happening. The pain came then, and with it, the reality of what was happening.

Why? Why?

There was no answer given.

The Lord is with thee…

The sound came of a pistol cocking.

Why? She gaped, blood pouring out of her open mouth, eyes glazed with the pain.

There was no answer. One final shot to the head made all such questions superfluous. The impact smashed her head back onto the stairs with a loud secondary thump. She continued to stare sightlessly up at the kitchen light fixture, lips quivering. The lights were quickly turned off again, there was the smashing of glass, and then the footsteps rapidly faded on the stairs of the rear exit. A long and narrow alleyway, home to old carts, broken bottles, dustbins, and the occasional outcropping of tree or brush, led all the way the length of the block.

Half an hour later, the cook arrived, finding the door unlocked and with broken glass from a single small pane scattered both inside and outside of the threshold. At the sight that greeted her eyes, she gave a single great gasping sob. Throwing aside her packages, she put her hands over her mouth, and stared with disbelief.

She screamed, once, twice, and then again. Crying and sobbing, lungs heaving, she ran down the two flights of steps and out of the small back courtyard and around to the next house. She pounded on the rear door, repeating over and over again that she needed to use the telephone.

***

The morning was still young when the call came in.

Hubert Desrosiers, busy with his own chores, looked over, with the handset to his ear.

Yes, he’s in. He punched a lit button on his telephone and with a sigh Gilles picked up his own receiver.

Desrosiers put the set down on his desk and rose to get a coffee.

Allo?

It was Levain, who had been gone when Gilles arrived this morning. It was no more than established routine. Levain had a few months to go, and the odds were that he would write the test and become a senior officer. Gilles had little doubt the man would succeed. It was a matter of character, and he supposed, suitable opportunities. Sooner or later there would have to be an opening. Promotions were generally allotted in yearly batches. Any actual expansion of the force seemed unlikely, although there was always talk.

Yes, Gilles. We have a case, an important one. Levain didn’t go too deeply into it over the phone, which while secure enough in this building, might be open and public at his end. An old woman, the grand dame of a big and important family. Sort of, anyway. Seventy-seven years old. She was shot to death. And there’s more, but I’ll let you see it first.

There was something in Andre’s tone. Gilles felt the impulse of something atavistic stir, deep in the pit of his belly, mild enough but promising much. Life had become a little boring lately, or maybe he was just getting too much of a good thing.

Very well. His eyebrows rose and his brow wrinkled as he took notes, listening intently.

Hubert, the newest addition to the team, appeared to be tidying up his desk. He glanced up at the coat-rack in sheer speculation, as if seeking reassurance that he had brought his jacket. He picked up his coffee cup and tried to slurp some of it down. He kept an eye on the boss.

It was a fine summer morn.

All right. I’ll be there in twenty minutes. Gilles hung up, glancing at the location he’d just taken.

Not a stellar address, but a respectable area nonetheless.

Call for a car.

Hubert jumped up out of his chair even as he leaned over and reached for the phone.

Allo? Car for Inspector Maintenon, right away please. He waited, again eying the coat-rack. Merci.

He cradled the phone.

Voila! I never knew I had so much power. Hubert had been with the team less than three months and the little demonstrations of personality were to be expected in one so young for the job.

I’m sorry, I need you here. Gilles was firm.

He didn’t tell the fellow it was part of his overall training program.

The routine was a normal one of late. There were no great emergency operations going on and so he wanted someone in the office. Detectives Archambault and Firmin, working in conjunction with a pair of uniformed sergeants, one or two gendarmes, were already out on their own investigations.

Yes, sir.

Hubert put his best face on it, and helped Gilles with his long coat and battered grey fedora. The sun was shining in through the windows and the room was beginning to warm up. Gilles felt sorry for him but it was better not to leave the office unmanned.

Er…Sir?

Gilles eyed him up, and then nodded firmly.

You are here to deal with any unforeseen emergencies.

That seemed to help and Hubert brightened up a little. What he was supposed to do about it if anything actually happened was something else.

That too, was part of the training.

Stepping out onto the street, a black sedan, long, low and positively purring with repressed power, awaited him by the curb. The driver made a hand gesture remarkably like a salute through the windshield, although he was unrecognizable to Gilles in the dark spectacles and with the brilliant glare of sunlight off the glass.

The young gendarme stepped out and held the door for him.

Thank you.

Doors slammed.

Where to, Inspector?

Gilles already knew it off by heart.

Number thirty-four, Rue Leopold.

Ah, some guys have all the luck.

Gilles grinned shortly. Checking over his shoulder and using his turn signal, the driver eased out into the vehicular stream. The radio muttered softly in the background, but the intermittent traffic on-air was such that his first impression had been borne out. This was a thoroughly routine day in the city. Two or three dead bodies turned up like clockwork, not unusually first thing in the morning. Other than that, there wasn’t much going on.

Hell, it might even be a good day. As far as Hubert went, a little personality wasn’t all bad.

What do you mean?

Sure beats working for a living.

Hah! Grinning hugely, Gilles settled in for the ride, observing the driver and gaining an impression as they went along.

The Chief, Jean Chiappe, had asked him to take a look at this young fellow and a hint was a hint. There was no denying it. It was always something different. The sheer volume of cars, buses, trucks and people seemed to get worse every day. Yet even that seemed somehow less intrusive this morning.

People are out and about today, eh, Inspector?

Gilles felt the eyes in the mirror upon him.

Yes.

The conversation lapsed.

Paris in spring could be glorious, although one saw so little of it in the metropolitan streets. The parks were something else. Now it was well into summer and everything was lush and green and full of colour, as his eyes sought out the cheerful planter baskets hanging overhead from the window ledges and the wrought-iron balconies so many buildings affected.

It was a wonderful day in the neighbourhood.

The gendarme glanced in the mirror, not entirely sure, but it appeared as if the Inspector was whistling, barely audibly, and possibly even enjoying the ride.

Chapter Two

The House in Question

As they arrived, Gilles made the fellow pull up down the street. The house in question lay at the end of a T-shaped intersection.

That’s it. The officer nodded and pointed.

It was a dark, well-maintained building. Like much of the housing in the city, it was five, or perhaps five and a half stories tall would be a better description. The sides shared common walls with its neighbours.

The bottom two floors