by Claude Izner
She saw a rat scurry along the wall, fleeing before the clogs of a potbellied woman laden with baskets. Josette always tried to avoid the tenant on the second floor, who lived with her husband, a brocade weaver whom she nagged from dawn until dusk. This evening, Josette felt relieved to be able to follow her up the stairs, and almost happy when the woman gave a deep grunt that passed for a greeting.
The half-light cast ominous shadows on the landing. Josette hurried on up to the third floor and locked herself in her room. Leaning against the wall, she caught her breath and walked over to the window. Darkness was slowly creeping over the street. A few couples had fled the furnaces of their garrets and were out strolling. The lamplighter would come along soon. Comforted, she adjusted her lamp in order to use up as little fuel as possible. She didn’t feel like preparing a meal and instead made do with a piece of bread and dripping, an apple and a glass of water. She couldn’t help going back over to the window that was glowing with the bright-orange rays of the setting sun. At the foot of a lilac bush, a shadow lengthened then drew back. It was a man. He was smoking a cigarette. He’d followed her and now he was spying on her. Josette leapt away from the window. She must control her fear or it would engulf her. She steeled herself to take another peek. This time the courtyard was empty.
‘I’m just imagining things. I’m losing my mind.’
She would calmly undress, have a quick wash then fall into a deep, healing sleep. Yes, that’s what she would do.
A knock at the door surprised her as she was unbuttoning her blouse. She felt a cry rising up her throat and her pulse quickened.
‘Mademoiselle Fatou? It’s me, your neighbour, Madame Cartier…Little Christophe has spilt all my flour. I was wondering, could you lend me some? Mademoiselle Fatou, are you there?’
With a trembling hand, Josette opened the door. A tiny moonfaced woman barged in. Apart from a pair of threadbare slippers she was dressed only in a thin shift.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you…That brat keeps badgering me to make pancakes. I’ll pay you back next week, as soon as my Justin gets his pay packet. Forgive my state of undress, this heat is killing me. Oh, while I’m here, lend me an egg and some sugar, would you?’
Her head spinning from the woman’s chatter, Josette helped Madame Cartier carry back her spoils. She left the woman, reluctantly, and in the gloom of the landing peered over the banister. At the bottom of the stairwell, the large copper ball on the newel post transformed into a leering face. She cried out in fright and hurled herself into her apartment, double locking the door.
There he was, standing in the middle of the room, smiling.
She thought her heart would stop. A red cloud engulfed her as she lost consciousness.
Chapter Eight
Wednesday 19 July
THE heatwave had shrivelled the leaves on the chestnut trees on Boulevard de la Chapelle.
‘Does the name Monsieur Gustave mean anything to you?’ Victor asked a woman sweeping the pavement.
She gave him a quietly mocking look.
‘I know as many Gustaves as there are scorched leaves.’
Victor also drew a blank from some children playing leapfrog. One of them had fun chasing after Victor’s bicycle, bellowing through a rolled-up poster. A salt-meat seller busy scraping knuckles of ham scratched his head and declared, ‘There was a Gustave who had a café near Rue Pajol, but he snuffed it last week.’
Disheartened, Victor decided to turn back. He’d covered every inch of the neighbourhood, from the freight train station of the Northern Railway to the grim-looking gasometer in Rue de l’Évangile, via the workshops of the Eastern Railway and the depot of the Compagnie des Petites Voitures in Rue Philippe-de-Girard. He’d spoken to about thirty Gustaves, none of whom counted a bookbinder from the Latin Quarter among his friends. The sight of the ramshackle buildings and their impoverished inhabitants depressed Victor, and he felt the urge to take himself off to more pleasant surroundings. If he wanted to find his man, he’d just have to wait until Fulbert’s errand boy came back on the 24th.
He decided to make one final attempt in Place de la Chapelle and slipped through a huge carriage entrance. As he pedalled past an enormous building, he was astonished to hear a voice calling out his name.
‘Monsieur Legris! Fancy seeing you here! How are you? Do you remember me? You look different.’
Victor stared at the man leaning out of a window low enough to climb through. He recognised Pérot, whose whiskers would have put Vercingetorix to shame.
‘Monsieur Pérot!41 Do you live here?’
‘This is where I work. Welcome to La Chapelle police station.’
Victor walked into the entrance where he propped up his bicycle so that he could shake the hand of the fellow who led him through to his office.
The gloomy decor of cracked tiles and brown paint would have brought to mind a hospital waiting room had it not been for the glass-fronted cabinet lined with books.
‘Are you still an exponent of free verse, Monsieur Pérot?’
‘I’ve religiously preserved your Jules Laforgue, a priceless gift, and I continue to serve my muse. I’ve even had the pleasure of seeing some of my poems printed in La Plume under the pen name Isis. Léon Deschamps42 and I have become friends. It’s only the beginning. My dream is to be published in Gil Blas. What fair wind brings you here?’
‘I got lost…I was on my way to value a collection of books.’
‘Ah! Books, books!’
‘You’re not growing tired of your profession, are you, Inspector?’
‘Assistant Chief of Police, please, I’ve been promoted! I’ve stepped into the shoes of Oscar Méténier43 and Ernest Raynaud,44 two talented men of letters who filled this position before me. The Chief is furious at being landed for the third time in a row with an assistant who has a passion for literature. He doesn’t know I’ve been published, so mum’s the word.’
‘And how is your tortoise…Nanette?’
‘I couldn’t find a home for her so I adopted her myself. Our office boy Lucien takes devoted care of her and the Chief’s stray dogs – despite his aversion to literature, the Chief has a kind heart. You must come back one day and watch Lucien reviewing his recruits all decked out in their caps and capes.’
Outside, a noise grew louder. Victor noticed a crowd had gathered at the window. Raoul Pérot frowned.
‘It’s impossible to have any privacy around here. You can hear everything in this house. It’s made worse by the fact that we have no local police stations and so no local police, just two inspectors and…’
He was interrupted by the arrival of an old man with a white beard, and a cheerful-looking youth. Between them was a fellow holding up his trousers with both hands in order to stop them falling about his ankles.
‘A fight in Rue du Département. We caught this pimp on the point of slicing up some other blockhead so we stepped in quick before any of his friends came to join in the fray, and as we’d left the handcuffs behind we pulled all the buttons off his breeches to stop him escaping.’
‘Thank you, Inspector Gaston, and you, too, Lucien. Please feel free to stay, Monsieur Legris. Sit down,’ Raoul Pérot ordered the knife wielder. ‘Lucien, tell those people to move along. Your name?’
‘Roger, but they call me the Tick. I didn’t do anything, I swear, Inspector. It was the other bloke who started it.’
‘Who is this other bloke and what exactly did he do to you?’
‘He came into my territory; he’s from La Villette. While I was in La Santoche45 he had his way with my Léonie and now she’s expecting. How am I supposed to get by with her in the family way? Léonie’s my other half. No one can hold a candle to her! And look at her now, useless!’
The Tick suddenly leapt to his feet, spitting with rage, eyes bloodshot, and banged his fists violently against the wall, crying out, ‘Ah, Inspector, I’m so angry! I won’t stand for this!’
His trousers slipped right down to his ankles,
revealing a pair of spindly legs. A window on the ground floor opened partially and a hairy man leant out, his face puffy from sleep.
‘Shut your trap before I do something I regret. Damn it, I work nights, you numbskull. What’s all this racket about anyway?’
The Tick leapt over to the window.
‘What the hell’s it got to do with you?’
‘Nothing!’ retorted the disturbed sleeper, prudently closing his window.
Just then, a side door opened and in strode a tubby middle-aged man wearing a suit and a bowler hat. Ignoring Raoul Pérot, he pounced on Roger, who immediately looked down at the floor.
‘Hey, you, pipe down,’ the man in the bowler thundered. ‘They can hear you yelling a mile away. As for your sorry tale, save it for the examining magistrate.’
The man in the bowler rushed out into the corridor, vanishing as swiftly as he’d appeared.
Raoul Pérot leant over to Victor.
‘That’s Corcol, the other inspector, a man with a firm hand, not known for his subtlety. Come on, Roger, hitch up your trousers and sit down. Did you intend to eliminate your rival?’
‘It all depends on what you mean by that. I just wanted to jump him, to give him a fright on account of my Léonie being lumbered with a kid – it’s going to cramp her style something awful. I’m a law-abiding man, Inspector, as peaceful and inoffensive as can be.’
‘Inoffensive…That’s a matter of opinion – your breath alone could kill a fly at ten paces.’
A soprano voice echoed sweetly through the courtyard.
‘Long live wine, love and tobacco!’
Victor gave Raoul Pérot a surreptitious sidelong glance and bit his lip. Raoul Pérot smiled craftily.
‘Light opera, Monsieur Legris, cares nothing for law and order. We’re fortunate enough to work next to a tavern where operatic companies rehearse. It permits us to mete out justice to the sound of music while pondering Verlaine’s question: “Is life really such a solemn and serious affair?” Roger,’ he said, addressing the Tick, ‘there’s no point in me giving you a warning, I’m simply going to confiscate your knife. Kindly keep a low profile, do you understand?’
‘What about my trouser buttons? They took my trouser buttons!’
‘That’ll teach you a lesson. Lucien, accompany this sans-culotte back to Rue du Département.’
Victor looked amazed.
‘Aren’t you going to arrest him?’
‘What good would it do? A week in jail won’t turn him into a choirboy. We’re better off saving our energy for more judicious cases, for are we not all destined to perish?’
‘You’re a funny sort of policeman!’
‘No doubt it’s the influence of literature, Monsieur Legris. Why not join me for lunch? Your bicycle will be safe under the watchful eye of Inspector Gaston; he never leaves the office except to go home to bed.’
They crossed the courtyard and slipped through a concealed door into Madame Milent’s establishment, where the table reserved for the assistant chief of police was screened off by a partition.
The place was already full, and laughter and curses rang out in the smoke-filled atmosphere. Victor studied the elegant handwritten menu and ordered the braised veal.
‘A good choice, both filling and economical. I’ll have the same, Madame Milent, and a pitcher of red!’
Behind Victor, Inspector Corcol sat alone, a newspaper open next to his napkin.
‘Don’t look round, Monsieur Legris,’ whispered Pérot. ‘It’s my colleague whom you met just now. He’s ignoring me.’
‘Why?’
‘Nobody likes to see younger men step on board, especially when they have seniority. He was after my post. We’ve settled for armed peace. Incidentally, Monsieur Legris, where’s that collection of books you were going to value?’
‘Rue…Oh, how silly, the name escapes me, it must be the wine…’
‘I heard about your friend.’
‘What friend?’
‘The bookbinder in Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. Chavagnac and Gerbecourt who were under me in the sixth arrondissement happened to be there.’
‘Pierre Andrésy. Yes, a dreadful affair. Do you know the results of the investigation? Inspector Lecacheur hinted it might be arson.’
‘Did he? No. I’ve no idea. How’s your assistant?’
Pérot’s colleague’s chair creaked. He brushed past Pérot as Victor sliced into his veal and replied, ‘He’s very well. He’s writing another serialised novel.’
He raised his head, about to take a mouthful of food. Inspector Corcol was saying goodbye to the landlady. He straightened his bowler and gave Victor a brief, hostile look. He seemed in a hurry to leave.
Madame Milent went over to clear his table. She hadn’t missed a word of Pérot’s conversation with that clean-shaven stranger – what was his name again? Monsieur Leblanc? No, Monsieur Legris, that was it.
‘He’s every bit as handsome as Monsieur Daglan. I wonder who he is…Monsieur Daglan will be proud of me for being – how did he put it? Oh yes! “His eyes and ears.”’
As he reached Rue de la Lune, Joseph caught a delicious whiff of butter brioche and gave in to temptation. In the words of Monsieur Mori: ‘Empty stomach, empty head’.
He pushed his way through the swarming, bustling crowd on the Boulevard, zigzagging across streets teeming with packed omnibuses, long carriages piled high with parcels, hansom cabs with their oil-cloth hoods, and jittery hackney carriages. He loved the lively atmosphere, the cafés, the theatres. He let his imagination run wild: one day soon, one of his serialised novels would be adapted for the stage and play to full houses, catapulting him to stardom.
Thule’s Golden Chalice, featuring Réjane or Sarah Bernhardt as Frieda von Glockenspiel. As for Éleuthère the mastiff, that could wait. And why not have it performed at Théâtre du Gymnase? The play would cause such a sensation that everyone with a telephone would listen to extracts on the théâtrophone.46 Not to mention patrons of the smart clubs and guests at the grand hotels who could simply put fifty centimes into the magic box and enjoy the best lines.
He imagined Monsieur Mori, so keen on the latest inventions, with his ear glued to the receiver, nodding with delight as Éleuthère’s barks ascended the scale (could Monsieur Coquelin Cadet be persuaded to make himself up to look like a dog?).
Sated on brioche and daydreams, he reached Théâtre de l’Échiquier.
This doesn’t look very promising. It wouldn’t be my first choice, unless of course they offered me a nice fat advance, he told himself.
He walked across the foyer and knocked on a padded door with a sign saying CONCIERGE. A crabby voice rang out.
‘What is it now?’
‘I have a manuscript here to be delivered in person.’
There was a grating sound and a pointed nose poked warily through a crack in the door.
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘Naturally. Joseph Pignot’s the name, author of Thule’s Golden Chalice, a sensational serialised novel soon to be printed in Le Passe-partout, which previously featured the outstanding The Strange Affair at Colombines.’
‘Who’s your appointment with?’
‘The manager.’
‘That’s impossible. Monsieur Leglantier has been dead since Monday.’
The nose was retracted and the door closed.
‘The silly old fool!’ Joseph declared loudly, somewhat taken aback. However, he was now in possession of a vital piece of information: the infamous actor referred to by the Comtesse de Salignac had shuffled off this mortal coil. Could it be through natural causes?
An alluring young woman rushed in through the main doors. He followed her into an Italianate auditorium, which was dimly lit apart from the stage, where a few oil lamps were burning. A group of men and women were having a lively discussion in front of a set designed for a swashbuckler. Joseph, hoping not to be noticed, slipped among them nonchalantly. To no avail.
‘You’re
not part of the cast,’ a man declared.
‘I’m a journalist. I’m here to find out more about the death of your manager.’
‘You’re the first person besides his creditors to show any interest in poor Monsieur Leglantier,’ muttered the stage manager.
‘And yet he was such a nice man!’ affirmed the winsome young woman Joseph had followed.
‘Could you tell me any more, Mademoiselle…?’ he asked, pencil poised over his notebook.
‘Andréa’s the name. He told me I had the makings of a star.’
‘A shooting star, no doubt,’ quipped a plump woman.
‘He said something about an Amazon,’ the young woman parried.
‘An Amazon on an old nag? He must have meant in Fernando’s Circus!’
‘Eugénie, you’re a spiteful old bitch!’
‘And you’re a common little tart!’
‘Ladies, please! Show a little decorum, if only out of respect for Monsieur Edmond. Suicide is an act of deep despair that takes great courage.’
‘And what would you know about courage, Monsieur le Duc d’Épernon!’
‘What? You mean he killed himself!’ exclaimed Joseph.
They all began chattering and gesticulating at the same time. Joseph took advantage of the confusion to usher Épernon into the wings.
‘Did he really kill himself?’
Flattered that a journalist would want to interview him, Épernon whispered to Joseph, ‘Between you and me, he was crippled by debt. Still, I’d never have believed him capable of ending his own life in such a tragic way. He was so intent on getting his theatre up and running again! I’ll let you into a secret: he was counting heavily on my performance.’
‘You say he had debts?’
‘Apparently l’Échiquier was mortgaged. Do you think that might explain why he began his farewell note with a verse from La Fontaine: a monkey and a leopard made money at the fair?’
