The Song Peddler of the Pont Neuf

by Laura Lebow

  “Monsieur Montigny!” I called, rapping on the door again. Something was wrong. I reached for the doorknob. It turned in my hand, and I pushed the door open.

  My breakfast rose in my throat as I surveyed the scene before me. Hubert Montigny lay on his bed, his throat slashed from ear to ear. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. The room was icy cold. I took a long breath and went over to the bed. The wound was deep but neat, not jagged. Whoever had killed the old man had known what he was doing. The worn linen cover of the straw mattress was red with blood, as was the collar of the old man’s yellowed shirt. I gently closed his eyes. I lifted his left hand. It was cool, but not as cold as the air in the room. I closed the door and went to the fireplace. The fire had been extinguished hours before. I could feel no heat emanating from the small log that remained.

  The scraps of a modest supper sat on the table where Montigny had shared his cheese with me on my first visit here. A quill and a battered inkwell sat on the table alongside an earthenware plate. A mug was half filled with wine. The cheese seller must have been eating when he was interrupted by his killer, probably sometime last evening.

  Heavy steps sounded on the landing. I froze. If someone had already discovered Montigny’s body this morning—perhaps the neighbor who had called for him when I had been here before—the police might be on their way. The last thing I needed was to be caught with the body of my client. The police rarely spent time investigating murders in which the victims were not prominent or wealthy Parisians, but they would gladly throw me in jail or question me for hours. I stood still and alert, my heart pounding, until I heard the footsteps pass by the door and start down the stairs.

  I hurriedly searched the room. My client’s cheese knife, worn and dull, rested on the plate. The killer must have come with his own weapon. One of the two stools was overturned. A large wet stain had spread under the other stool. I rubbed a finger in it and took a sniff. Blood. Montigny must have been sitting at the table when he was killed. His murderer had slashed his throat from behind, then had coolly laid the dying man out on the mattress.

  I went to the cupboard and opened the doors. There was very little inside—Montigny’s meager wardrobe consisted of just a ratty old suit and two faded shirts. As I turned out the pockets in his cloak, a small object fell onto the floor. I leaned over and picked it up. It was a church medallion, with one side showing a cross, the other the name Varennes. Varennes. Where had I heard that name before? I stuffed the medallion in my pocket and closed the cupboard doors. I took one last look around the room and then quietly closed the door behind me.

  I raced down the stairs. Once outside, I put on my cap and pulled it low over my head. Luckily for me, the shoppers in the street were engrossed in the fabrics on offer. No one noticed as I kept close to the wall of Montigny’s building and made my way down the street. Once I reached the rue Saint-Honoré, I quickly walked several blocks and then turned into the labyrinth of short, narrow streets leading to the old Louvre palace. I found a boy in the rue Fromenteau and pressed a coin into his hand.

  “Go over to Les Halles and find the Watch,” I told him. “Tell them there is a dead man in the rue de la Poterie, on the staircase directly across from the main market entrance. The third floor. Can you remember that?”

  He nodded, his eyes wide.

  I pressed another coin into his hand. “This is to forget who gave you the message to deliver,” I said.

  “Yes monsieur!” he said, and ran off.

  My heart pounding, I continued down the street to the river’s edge, where I hurried by the Galerie du Louvre and across the Pont Royal. My mind was in a jumble. It was not until I plunged into the familiar streets of the Left Bank that my heart slowed to its normal beat, and I was able to think clearly about what I had seen. First Bricon had been murdered, and now Montigny. What the hell was going on?

  • •

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The vision of my dead client, his body laid carefully on his bed by his murderer, his staring eyes, and his bloodied throat stayed with me the rest of Saturday, and even appeared in my dreams that night. When I awoke, my head throbbed and my mouth was sour with exhaustion.

  Now, as I trudged up the rue Saint-Denis in Sunday’s early afternoon sleet, I forced the images from my mind and turned my concentration to the case. I had last seen Montigny on Wednesday in the tavern. I had reported on my progress investigating Bricon’s murder—that I had learned that the song peddler had been selling illegal pamphlets before his death. Montigny had insisted that Bricon’s murder had something to do with the blackmail notes he had sent to Marc-Étienne Duval. The old man had left our meeting in a state of agitation. What had he been thinking? What had he done between our conversation on Wednesday and his murder on Friday night? As I turned the corner and walked by the shuttered stalls of the city’s leather market, a glimmer of an idea formed in my brain. Could it be possible? I shook my head. No, that was ridiculous.

  I turned the corner and entered the rue Plâtrière. A few minutes later I arrived at Madame Garsault’s shop. As was usual on my Sunday visits, the shop was neat and cheery, warm from the crackling logs in the fireplace. My sister slumped in her work chair near the window, her fingers worrying a needle and piece of cloth in her lap. She smiled when she saw me enter, and patted the chair next to hers.

  “Hello, chérie,” I said, removing my cloak and giving her a kiss on the cheek. “What is wrong? You look pale.”

  “Just a catarrh,” she said in a deep, nasal voice. “I’ll be better in a few days.”

  I looked around the shop. “Where is Madame?” I asked.

  Aimée sneezed. “She’s gone to spend the afternoon with friends,” she said, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket. “She told me I should not go out. I’m to offer you coffee when you arrive, enjoy a brief visit, and then spend the rest of the day in bed.” She pouted. “So no Palais Royal for me today.”

  “That’s good advice,” I said. “The weather is horrible, anyway. There wouldn’t have been anyone interesting to watch in the gardens today.”

  She stood. “I’ll make coffee,” she said.

  I took her hand and pulled her down to her seat. “No, I don’t need it,” I said. “I’ll just stay a few minutes. Oh, I forgot. I have a gift for you.” I dug the package containing the ribbon out of my cloak pocket and handed it to her. Her eyes lit up as she recognized the pale gray wrapping paper.

  “This is from the shop!” she said. “How did you get it?”

  “I was in the gardens on a case and decided you deserved a little gift,” I said.

  She untied the string and carefully unfolded the paper. “Oh, it is lovely,” she said, holding up the ribbon. “I love this shade of blue. I’ll put it on my bonnet, for spring.” She smiled at me, her eyes full of mischief. “I wish I had been with you. I cannot picture you inside that shop.”

  I laughed. “Well, I will admit it—I was the only man in there, and I made the purchase as quickly as I could. I don’t expect I’ll be going back very soon.”

  She laughed as she rewrapped the ribbon in the paper. “Thank you,” she said.

  “I have some news for you. While I was in the gardens that day, I saw Juliette,” I said.

  “That did not take very long! How is she? Where is she living now? When can I see her?”

  “Wait a moment,” I said, putting my hand on her arm. “She is no longer working in the rue de la Tixéranderie. I visited Madame Dupré there. She told me that she and Juliette had parted ways a few weeks ago.”

  My sister frowned. “But why? Was the mistress displeased with Juliette’s work?”

  “She would not say,” I lied. “She told me she had no idea where Juliette had gone. But then I was in the gardens to interview someone for my case, and I saw Juliette go into the fashion merchant’s shop.”

  “Aha! So that’s why you were there.” She hit my shoulder playfully. “You wanted me to believe that you braved the place in order to buy me a r
ibbon. But tell me—what did Juliette say?”

  I reached for her hand. “I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” I said.

  “What is wrong?”

  “Juliette gave me a message to pass on to you. She told me to tell you that she is well. She is living in a new place. She no longer attends Saint-Eustache, so she won’t see you in church again. She doesn’t want you to worry about her.”

  “Did you ask for her new address?” Aimée asked. “You could take me to see her next week.”

  “I asked her, but she would not tell me.” I paused. “I’m afraid she doesn’t want to see you, chérie,” I said.

  Aimée’s face fell. She chewed on her lower lip. “That seems strange to me,” she said. “Did she say where she is working now? Does she have another mistress? Why wouldn’t she want to see me?” She shook her head. “She’s in trouble, I’m sure of it.”

  “She told me she was fine,” I said patiently. I did not want to tell her what the shop girl had told me, that Juliette had started to spend money there recently. I didn’t want her to know about Madame Dupré’s claim that Juliette was a thief.

  “I don’t believe it,” Aimée said. “That is not the Juliette I know. Something is wrong. You have to find her for me.”

  “I will keep an eye out for her,” I said. “If I see her again, I’ll try to get her to tell me more. But I cannot search all over the city for her. She might be anywhere.”

  She let out a sigh. “All right. But please, if you see her, tell her I am very worried about her.” She blew her nose into the handkerchief. “How has the rest of your week been?” she asked.

  “Very busy. This new case is complicated. But I went out to Saint-Antoine Tuesday to visit Bernard.”

  “How is he?”

  “The same. He sends his love.”

  “Did you two argue?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “Good. You two have to get along, for my sake. You are all I have.” Her fingers stroked the package’s wrapping. “It’s your fault, you know. You won’t let him be.”

  “I’m not the one who—”

  She gave me the same look our mother used to give me when I pointed out how Bernard enjoyed more privileges than I did. I swallowed the rest of my complaint.

  “You know he will never change,” she said. “He’s happy with his life. Stop pushing him.”

  We sat for a minute, thinking about our brother.

  “Perhaps when spring comes you can take me out to visit him,” Aimée said.

  “Yes, I can certainly do that. I also went out to Montmartre the other day.”

  “In this cold?” she asked.

  “Yes, for my case. I met a writer up there. His family runs a ginguette. Perhaps next summer I’ll take you out there. You would enjoy seeing the vineyards and the flower farms.”

  She stuck her tongue out at me. “Perhaps next summer I’ll have a young man who is eager to take me, and I won’t have to go with my boring older brother.”

  “You had better not have one.” I laughed. “Just concentrate on your work with Madame Garsault. Ignore any young men who should approach you.”

  She yawned.

  I stood. “I’m leaving now. You need some rest. Stay warm.” I leaned over, gave her a hug, and then bundled myself in my cloak.

  “Thank you for the ribbon,” she said. “And if you should see Juliette again, send a message to me immediately.”

  “Yes, mademoiselle,” I said, giving her a mock bow. I walked to the door.

  “And Paul—” she called.

  I turned.

  “Be careful. I don’t know what I would do if you were to come to harm.”

  I nodded. “Don’t worry about me, chérie. I can take care of myself.”

  It was difficult to remain inconspicuous on the rue de Grenelle, a long street that stretched between the Invalides hospital and the abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés on the Left Bank. It was lined with the mansions of some of the richest men in Paris, the houses closed off from the curious eyes of passersby by tall walls and heavy wooden gates. The street was seldom frequented by vendors, workmen, or even tourists.

  After I’d returned from visiting my sister, I had spent the rest of the day chatting with neighbors in the wineshop and tending to my bird, and then had gone to the rue des Bons Enfants and followed Anton Cobenzl here from his hotel. The sleet had stopped falling, but the temperature was still bitterly cold, so I walked up and down the block to keep my toes from freezing, occasionally peeking through the open gates of the Hôtel d’Estrées, where the Austrian diplomat was attending a party. Lights gleamed in every window of the large mansion. Lanterns had been lit throughout its courtyard. I could not assume my usual surveillance disguise—that of a man of the street, slumped against a wall. I must look as though I belonged, or the hôtel’s ostler and his staff would chase me away.

  But at the moment the ostler was occupied directing coachmen where to park their carriages and supervising as his boys led horses into the mansion’s stable. After securing their vehicles, most of the visiting coachmen made their way down the street toward Saint-Sulpice to warm themselves in a tavern while the beautiful young men and women they had deposited in the courtyard found amusement upstairs in the house.

  I blew on my cold hands and walked a block down the street to the corner of the rue du Bac. Cobenzl had entered the mansion an hour ago. By now, I imagined, most of the guests had arrived and were probably enjoying supper and dancing in the grand rooms of the house. The street was silent. I was the only person loitering in it.

  A carriage rumbled toward me and turned into the rue de Grenelle. I followed it back to the Hôtel d’Estrées. The ostler had finally seen to all the carriages and horses. The courtyard was silent except for the whinnying of horses in the stable wing to the right of the gate. The carriage pulled up at the door, and in the light of the lanterns that had been placed along the steps to the building’s entrance, I could see three young women dressed in luxurious cloaks, their faces painted and hair drawn up in the latest style, descend and enter the mansion. A minute later two more women climbed out of the carriage. One of them hesitated as the heel of her shoe caught in a cobblestone. A footman at the door rushed to her assistance as the carriage turned around and rushed back through the gate and into the street. Her slight figure seemed familiar to me. I took a step into the courtyard to take a better look. As she nodded her thanks to the footman, she turned her head my way, looking after the carriage. My jaw dropped. It was my sister’s friend, Juliette.

  “Prostitutes,” a deep voice said at my elbow. I turned to find the ostler, a stocky, middle-aged man bundled in a greatcoat. “The duc’s son brings them in whenever he holds a party. If his father were to find out—” He shook his head.

  “I take it you and the young man have reached a mutually satisfactory agreement?” I said, raising a brow.

  He laughed. “Why not? What’s it to me what goes on in that house? I’ve never even been inside.” He held out a hand. “Jean Briard,” he said.

  I shook his hand but didn’t offer my name.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Are you waiting for a guest?”

  “Yes, my young master,” I lied.

  “How did you come? I didn’t see you with a carriage,” he said. “By horse?” His manner was friendly, not suspicious.

  “No,” I said. “My master lives over near Saint-Sulpice. Lately he’s become enamored of this popular fashion for walking everywhere. Apparently the family doctor told him it is good for his bile. So I am required to walk with him, to ensure that he arrives home safely.”

  “Tough for you,” Briard said.

  I shrugged. “It’s a living.”

  He gestured to the doors to the stable. “Well, since you have to wait, come inside. I have a stove going, and I can offer you a beer. The guests won’t begin to leave for another hour at least.”

  I followed him past an empty carriage, its rear sitting on blocks. Inside the door
of the long, wide stable, a boy had propped up the carriage’s rear wheels against a large box and was hammering enthusiastically at one of them.

  “Careful, Jean-Luc,” Briard called. “Your task is to straighten the vicomte’s wheels, not to make them even more crooked.”

  He led me by a row of stalls, where twenty or so horses were tethered. Beyond the stalls were a few hammocks, strung up for the stable boys. Briard ushered me into a small room at the very end of the stable. “These new boys, some of them are thick in the head,” he said. “If you don’t have the skill to straighten a guest’s wheel, you’ll never make a good ostler. We fix a few wheels every time guests come to the house. Rich men like to run their carriages fast. The coachman told me they hit the curb coming down the rue du Bac. He’s lucky he was able to get the carriage here.”

  He threw some wood into the stove that sat in the corner and pointed me to a worn stool. “Have a seat. It doesn’t have the fancy satin on it that you’d get upstairs in the house, but it will do for us.” He drew a pitcher of beer from a large cabinet across the room and poured two mugs. He handed me one and then lowered himself onto the straw mattress against the wall.

  I took a sip. The beer was tasty and refreshing, just what I needed. I had not slept well last night and the length of my day was beginning to wear on me.

  “Are you from Paris?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was born in the Marais.”

  “Ah. I don’t get up there very often. I grew up just south of here, in Vaugirard.” He took a long drink of his beer. “I don’t get there very much either. My father was a farmer. There are no farms left over there now.”

  We sipped our drink in companionable silence.

  “What did your father do in the Marais?” he asked.

  “He was a baker,” I said, inventing a better version of my real father.

  “Dead?”