No Honor Among Thieves

Chapter 5

5

Paul-Henri, junior officer of the Castillac gendarmerie, put his phone into the front pocket of his jacket and heaved a deep sigh. Ninette over at the épicerie had called to say Malcolm Barstow had shoplifted again. To Paul-Henri, this meant searching all over the village trying to find the boy, who was a master at hiding when he put his mind to it, as well as explaining to the chief, who was relatively new to Castillac, the complicated situation that was the Barstow family. Add to that placating Ninette, who in the phone call had sounded at her wit’s end.

He went to the bathroom in order to check his uniform before going out: all buttons were at a high polish and sewed on tight; no lint, stain, or stray pet hair marred the fabric; his hair was neatly combed and there was nothing between his teeth. Satisfied, he left the station and went first to the épicerie to get the whole story from Ninette.

“It’s just ridiculous!” she blurted out, before he even got inside the door. “Excuse me, bonjour Paul-Henri. I lose my manners when it comes to those Barstows! They are a blemish on our village, I tell you!”

“Calm down, please, Ninette. Tell me exactly what happened.”

“He came in not an hour ago. And you know as well as I do how that goes, Paul-Henri! The boy sidles up this aisle and down another, hands in his pockets. Flashes me a sunny smile, don’t you know, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth.”

Ninette crossed her arms with a flourish and Paul-Henri waited patiently for the rest of the story.

“And then Madame Tessier came in for some mineral water. She always has to have Perrier in glass bottles, you know, never the plastic. And she—she got to talking—”

“As Madame Tessier does,” said Paul-Henri under his breath.

“And she was telling me about the Valettes and how Camille barely ever leaves the house anymore, and anyway while we were having that conversation, somehow Malcolm slipped past her and before I could get a word out, he was out the door and gone! Pockets bulging! I ran outside to give chase but he was nowhere to be seen. Like a phantom when he wants to be, that one. The rotten little thief!”

Paul-Henri took a deep breath. “Can you tell me what was stolen?”

“Of course I can’t! I just told you, he slipped out the door like an eel, and I didn’t have any chance to stop him and see what was in his pockets! He bumped right into Madame Tessier, too, like she was nothing but a piece of furniture in his way.”

“So you cannot tell me a single thing that was missing? Is it possible the boy had bulging pockets before he entered the store?”

“You know he didn’t! Whose side are you on, Paul-Henri? I guess I need to speak to Chief Charlot, then.” She glared at him. For a moment Paul-Henri thought she was on the verge of slapping him.

“Now, now, Ninette, seriously, chérie, getting this worked up isn’t good for your health. Of course we in the gendarmerie take any theft seriously, but in this instance, I’m afraid you are making more of a guess about a theft than presenting any evidence that—”

“Oh, I see. I see whose side you’re on. Just because that boy’s father is no good and the family never has a dime, you take pity on him. I’m not hard-hearted, I understand. Honestly, I do. But what about my family, Paul-Henri? What about the dimes we struggle to make ourselves—are we simply supposed to open the cash register when the Barstows come around, and let them help themselves?”

Paul-Henri was usually rather good with distraught women; he knew what soothing things to say, and how to make them believe he was on their side, which he was. But that morning, he was off his game, for some reason, and Ninette’s emotions threatened to swamp him entirely. After a few more futile attempts to calm her down, he decided the best course of action was to take his leave.

“All right then, thank you,” he said. “I’m glad you called and reported him, and I will talk to the Chief about the situation and also pay a visit to the Barstow home.” He was about to say he wanted to hear Malcolm’s side of the story, but wisely stopped himself.

Besides, it was true that Malcolm was a thief, everyone in Castillac knew that. And doubtless Ninette’s family, who owned the épicerie, suffered the most from his criminal actions.

“Adieu,” he said, turning for the door, and gratefully feeling the cold air on his face once he was free again.

Malcolm, meanwhile, was dealing with his own set of problems. He had dodged Ninette easily enough and made it to the shabby Barstow house, which they rented from a Bergerac resident who was something of a neglectful landlord. Repairs were not made in a timely fashion, or even at all, but on the other hand (luckily for the Barstows) the owner was so disorganized he did not always realize when they were late with a month’s payment.

Madame Barstow sat slumped in a chair in the kitchen, in front of the fire. Her health was poor and she spent more and more time in that chair, the housekeeping left to another day, meals not prepared, baths not taken, her eyes closed or unfocused, staring at the coals.

“Look what I got,” Malcolm said to her with a grin, pulling his hands out of his pockets. “You love these!” He held out small oval cans of tinned anchovies. “I didn’t get any lettuce but I can go find some this afternoon. You could make that salad dressing, you know, with the Parmesan and anchovy paste, the one we all love so much.”

Mrs. Barstow tried to summon a smile but it flickered briefly across her face and died. “It’s the middle of December,” she said. “There’s no good lettuce this time of year. Would you cook tonight, son? Your little brother and sister get a good meal at school, but everyone is hungry at night when it’s so dark and cold. And I just…I just don’t think I can manage it today.”

Malcolm looked at her with concern. He had seen her depressed before, even hopeless, but maybe not ever quite this bad. He suspected her mood had plummeted because his father had been let out of prison, and been home for several weeks. Madame Barstow complained terribly when he was gone, but his return—he had been to prison several times—was nevertheless never much of a boost to her spirits.

“Sure, I can cook,” said Malcolm. “I got a can of tomatoes so I can make a sauce. And a hunk of hard cheese to grate over it, I think we’ve got some noodles…”

“You’re a good boy,” murmured his mother, turning her gaze back to the fire and pulling a moth-eaten blanket up to her chin.

Malcolm watched her for another moment. “Is that i***t Alfie giving you any trouble?”

“Nah. Your father’s told him he can sleep on the sofa for a few days, that’s all.”

“He needs to move the hell on,” said Malcolm, curling his hands into fists.

“Watch your language.”

Malcolm laughed. Then he wrapped his scarf tight around his neck and went back outside, guessing correctly that one gendarme or another would be paying the house a visit, and it would be prudent to be elsewhere for the moment. He was careful not to steal too much from any one place at a time and counted on the low value of the thefts to make dealing with him a low priority.

Which might have been a better strategy in a city, where the gendarmes had plenty of other things to concern themselves with. In Castillac, that morning in December, Paul-Henri had absolutely nothing else to do but focus on him and the accusations of Ninette; besides which he felt the need to polish up his reputation with the Chief by making an arrest, which always warmed the Chief’s chilly heart.