by Claude Izner
‘Tuppence for a stick of mint rock!’ he chanted to the mothers and their children, eager to begin skipping and digging in the grit.
Victor walked straight towards the artificial rock, down a narrow pathway beside a waterfall and into a sandy walkway leading to a miniature lake. He glanced around. Would the leopard suddenly appear? Or did he want Victor to find him?
The sun had come out and a crowd of ladies had hurriedly occupied the benches and chairs. Under the distracted gaze of nannies in ribboned hats, children played with balls or hoops or jumped about from the sheer joy of being alive. Their squeals of delight drowned out the sound of women eagerly gossiping about their neighbours’ bad behaviour or habits. Besides an old park keeper maintaining a discreet watch over this little corner of the world, there were no men in sight.
Victor strolled by the lake pretending to look at the ducks, aware that his presence was causing a stir amongst the old ladies parked in the sun. One dropped her glasses, another turned down the corner of a page in her book. The advance of the nonchalant stranger broke the all-powerful spell of boredom.
He walked back the way he’d come, hoping to find a secluded spot. He paused under a tree and lit a cigarette. A rustle made him jump.
‘Don’t look round, Monsieur Legris. You didn’t hang about, did you? Go to the top of the grotto; I’ll follow you.’
He obeyed without trying to catch a glimpse of the man.
When he reached the meeting place, all he found was a nanny in a printed cotton dress. She was gesturing to a child standing next to the railings separating the park from the tracks, which converged towards Saint-Lazare station. As soon as she saw Victor, she blushed and scurried away. When the coast was clear, the park keeper appeared, twirling his moustache.
‘You’re punctual. I’m grateful for that,’ he said in a youthful voice.
Victor, taken aback, quickly composed himself.
‘I wasn’t expecting such an elaborate disguise.’
‘Well, it suits my purpose perfectly. Who would ever suspect a humble representative of the law?’
‘Will you please explain why you sent me a coded message?’
‘Let’s just say I have a fondness for numbers. I wanted to test you. Did you decipher it?’
‘The leopard is innocent. Now prove it to me.’
‘Bravo, you’ve a good nose and plenty of pluck. But you occasionally get involved in dangerous cases.’
‘Am I in danger now?’
‘Not with your accomplice over there to protect you and our friends with webbed feet.’
Victor was annoyed to see Joseph breaking a piece of bread to feed the ducks and stirring the old ladies from their stupor again.
‘I suggest you call him over before he draws too much attention to himself.’
It took Joseph a while to comprehend that the hand waving in the distance was gesturing to him to approach. Nervous about the reception he’d get, he speedily obeyed.
‘A fine display of discretion!’ muttered Victor. ‘And who’s watching the shop?’
‘Mademoiselle Iris, Boss,’ replied Joseph, his eyes riveted on the keeper, who was surveying the park.
‘Gentlemen, I need your help,’ the man declared calmly.
‘Oh, it’s you!’
‘Indeed, young man, I do believe that I am me. Monsieur Legris, if you agree to help me I’ll provide you with some remarkable facts. You’re fond of solving mysteries, according to what I’ve read.’
‘I’ll need to know all about you.’
‘A man’s life begins at birth, and to recall every episode would be an impossible task. If I could give you an account of my whole life, would it not inevitably be suspect? The main thing is that I chose to live on the fringes in order to disobey the rules of a society stinking of the sewer. The world is a prison, with gilded bars for some, but a prison all the same. I am a free citizen of Batignolles, born under the splendour of an Italian sky. My father was a staunch Garibaldian by the name of Enrico Leopardi.’
‘Leopardi, as in the poet?’64
‘You are a cultivated man, Monsieur Legris! Yes, Leopardi like that melancholic, Giacomo Leopardi.’
‘So, you’re the leopard!’ Joseph cried.
‘What powers of deduction! Bravo, young man! However, in this land of freedom and the rights of man it is preferable not to have an Italian name. I am called Frédéric Daglan.’
‘The name on the Ambrex shares!’ exclaimed Joseph.
‘Such a keen sense of observation in an admirer of Émile Reynaud doesn’t surprise me, young man.’
‘But how did you…? Of course, Cédric Renard! The journalist! Very clever!’
‘You are more perceptive than most, Monsieur Pignot.’
‘What made you choose the passage from Victor Hugo about burning books?’
Without hesitation Daglan responded.
‘Victor Hugo was a defender of the weak and downtrodden of all races and nations. He had a great spirit and I admire him. “Whose Fault is This?” is one of my favourite poems. How can a man who is an outcast of society, exploited and deprived of knowledge, respect the written word? Does that answer your question, Monsieur Pignot?’
Daglan went on to give them an account of his everyday life, complaining that his profession barely provided him with enough to eat and pay his expenses.
‘However, love costs nothing. Women give themselves to me without asking anything in return – I don’t know why. They are unfairly accused of being venal,’ he added, curling his moustache again.
‘And this is enough to prove your innocence?’
‘Of course not. I’m attempting to paint a general picture of my situation. As an art lover you should appreciate that. Your portraitist is really pretty!’
‘You’ve been spying on us!’
‘I love gathering information about people who take an interest in me. If I tell you who the real culprit is, will you help me?’
‘Tell me first why you wanted to meet me.’
‘A calculated risk. The mastermind behind this mess is impossible to unseat but together we might bring him down. I was contacted a while ago by a police officer, on 11 June to be precise. We met one Sunday in the suburbs. He asked me to steal some amber cigar holders. Curious about what he wanted them for, I asked a pal of mine to follow him. When someone hires me to do a job I like to cover my back.’
‘And the name of this policeman?’
‘Gustave Corcol.’
‘Boss, that’s the fellow who…’ whispered Joseph.
Victor gestured to him to be quiet. Daglan went on.
‘The following day, the 12th, Corcol turned up at the police station as usual. At lunchtime he took an omnibus to Rue des Boulets, where my friend Théo saw him enter an enamellist’s workshop, Léopold Grandjean & Fils. There was a sign above the door. He came out half an hour later. The following day, Théo tailed him to a theatre in Rue de l’Échiquier. He and the manager, Edmond Leglantier, left together.’
Joseph choked, bursting to express his astonishment, but he was scared of Victor’s wrath and dared not utter a word.
‘They had a long discussion in a bar on the corner,’ Daglan added. ‘In the afternoon of Wednesday 14th, Corcol went back to Grandjean & Fils. This time he came out carrying a portfolio under his arm. From there he walked to Passage Thermopyles in the Petit-Montrouge district, where he slipped in to Paul Theneuil’s printing works and came out again empty-handed.’
Joseph was gasping by now and Victor looked daggers at him.
‘On the 15th Corcol didn’t leave work all day. In the meantime, I began to set up the robbery. I left the crates, the cart and the donkey with a friend who has a market garden. That evening, Corcol paid another short visit to the printing works, this time carrying a brown leather briefcase, then he took an omnibus home. Intrigued by all these comings and goings, I resolved to get to the bottom of it. The next day, the 16th, I broke into his house while he was at work. It was easy as t
here’s no concierge and his apartment is at the far end of a courtyard on the top floor. I had to know what was in that briefcase. I found it hidden under his mattress. Inside was a file stuffed with a thick stack of share certificates in the name of Ambrex. Now I understood why he wanted the cigar holders. The scoundrel hadn’t shown much imagination in the choice of name. But imagine my astonishment when I read the names of the directors! One was me and the other Grandjean! I put everything back in its place. What he was up to exactly was a mystery. But I knew I was being set up. On Saturday 17th, as agreed, I stole the cigar holders together with a few cheap trinkets that would be easy to fence. By two o’clock I’d done the job without a hitch.’
‘Bridoire’s Jeweller’s! Boss, you must admit I’ve got a nose for news items!’
‘Yes, you have,’ Victor conceded, remarking to Daglan, ‘The crate was a clever idea.’
‘Tricks of the trade. On Sunday 18th, I took the stolen goods to Chatou in a cake box. Corcol gave me my two hundred francs. I left, but I followed him to Muller’s brasserie where he gave the box to the theatre manager.’
Victor and Joseph looked at one another – Adélaïde had been right.
‘I stopped tailing the inspector and began following Leglantier. On the 21st he went to a club on the Boulevards. There I saw him deliver a patter worthy of any charlatan. The shares sold like hot cakes. Leglantier was set to make a tidy profit, which he would no doubt split with Corcol. The problem was that with my name on those shares I was in it up to my neck. I decided to move to the country and pluck chickens, to take a break from my criminal calling. Two weeks passed. I’d begun to breathe more easily when I read about Grandjean’s murder in an old newspaper. I thought it over. If they were killing off the directors I’d be next. The irony was that they were trying to pin his murder on me, because they’d left a scribbled note on the body with some cock-and-bull story about a leopard and its spots. Grandjean had been stabbed near his workshop the day Leglantier sold his phoney shares. And then there was the disappearance of the man who’d printed them, Paul Theneuil, and the letter addressed to his book-keeper. Again, it pointed the finger at the leopard.’
‘Has Paul Theneuil disappeared?’ exclaimed Victor.
‘Yes, vanished into thin air.’
‘How did you find out about it?’
‘From a news item in Le Passe-partout. “Remember, Paul. The leopard, light as amber, says: ‘Merry month of May, oh when will you return?’”’ he recited.
‘Sherlock Pignot’s nose must have been blocked that day,’ Victor said under his breath.
‘I can’t be expected to read everything down to the notices about run-over pets!’ Joseph protested, kicking himself for having missed the article.
‘And then,’ resumed Daglan, ‘Leglantier took a lethal dose of municipal gas. What’s funny is that they suspect an aristocrat, who was a victim of the swindle, of staging the fake suicide. In the meantime, I tracked down the witness to Grandjean’s murder – a flower girl – who didn’t tell me much, except that the killer was about five foot seven and that she’d noticed a lock of grey hair sticking out from under his hat. I watched over the girl in case the murderer came back looking for trouble. That’s when I noticed a fair-haired young fellow snooping around the flower market at La Madeleine. He was either a policeman or in cahoots with Corcol. Or else he was a womaniser. I saw his little game with a young brunette whom he invited to the Théâtre Optique.’
Joseph, suddenly bright red, forced himself to look nonchalant.
‘Did Iris enjoy the show?’ Victor asked him.
‘I approached them and discovered that the man was an assistant at Victor Legris’s bookshop. The name was familiar. I remembered you’d nearly come to a sticky end last year, and that you’d solved some difficult cases. I decided to get in touch. Now I’ve confessed everything, it’s up to you to help me out of this mess. True, I’m a thief, but I’m no murderer.’
‘This is serious. Why don’t you go to the police?’
‘They’ll take one look at my record and throw me behind bars, convinced that I’ve made the whole story up in order to clear myself of a crime which I in fact masterminded. The police are only human. Their occupation shapes their behaviour: you can judge a book by its cover. And you’re forgetting that Corcol is one of them. I’ll be safe behind bars, it’s true, but I prefer my freedom. You’re my only chance, Monsieur Legris.’
‘What do you expect me to do?’
‘To provide some evidence: in the beginning there were four men, now only Corcol is left.’
‘You’re still here. And Theneuil is running around out there somewhere. Isn’t there something else you have to tell me?’
Frédéric Daglan remained silent. Suddenly, without warning, he stepped back, gazing fixedly towards the foot of the rock. Victor turned round. Two policemen were strolling across the park, talking.
‘Nothing, Monsieur Legris. There’s trouble ahead. I’ve given you enough clues to lead you to the culprit. Just don’t go after the wrong man,’ Daglan warned, before making his way back down towards the waterfall.
Victor and Joseph walked slowly over the iron bridge crossing the railway tracks. On the left three tunnel openings gaped. The arrival or departure of convoys of fifteen or twenty wagons was heralded at regular intervals by shrill whistles and clouds of steam. To their right, overlooking the tracks, was Batignolles station, where the Normandy trains passed through without stopping, and which served only the Ceinture line.
They stopped to look down at the people filling the platform and the stairs leading up to the waiting room.
‘Boss, did you notice that Daglan never mentioned the fire at Pierre Andrésy’s shop? Do you think he was bluffing, or does he not know about his death?’
‘It’s hard to say. The man’s a paradox; you don’t know whether to suspect him or to feel sorry for him. His disguise was shady enough – it was impossible to get a good look at his face under all that make-up. His voice sounded genuine, but I wouldn’t trust him any more than I would Corcol.’
‘We have two suspects, then.’
‘Three. If Paul Theneuil has gone into hiding, then he’s just as likely to be the puppet master behind this sinister farce. I suggest we go to his house.’
‘Providing we know where he lives.’
‘Joseph, either you need a holiday or you’re not concentrating. Daglan gave us his address: a printing works in Passage des Thermopyles. I’m busy tomorrow – we’ll go on Thursday morning.’
‘Mmm, unless you leave me high and dry again!’
‘Now that my sister’s eating out of your hand again you can pass the reins over to her.’
A plume of smoke enveloped them.
‘And what if Monsieur Mori complains, Boss?’
‘Pretend you have a delivery.’
Joseph gasped and stopped dead in the middle of the pavement.
‘Hell’s bells! We’re a right pair of bumbling detectives! I’m not the only one in need of a holiday.’
‘Why?’
‘We didn’t ask Daglan about Sacrovir.’
Kenji’s expression, while always remaining polite and composed, could sometimes darken in a way that broke a man’s will. Adolphe Esquirol finally cracked.
‘Do you intend to stand there all day long staring at me in silence? What do you want from me, anyway? I’ve told you everything I know!’ he bawled, screwing up his rodent-like features.
‘You omitted one important detail: the address of the man who sold you the lot.’
‘He didn’t give it to me. How many times do I have to tell you?’
‘As many times as you like. I’m in no hurry. Attend to your customers. Business is sacred and must always come first,’ retorted Kenji, examining his nails.
Esquirol glanced uneasily at the two eminent sinologists waiting to be served and hissed furiously, ‘All right, you win. Monsieur Fourastié, Rue Baillet, near the Louvre. Satisfied? Now get out!’
Kenji carefully opened out a map he kept in his pocket.
‘It’s very close…I’ll walk,’ he murmured.
A tune from childhood came into his head and he began singing:
‘Niwa no sanhyô no ki
Naru suzu fukaki…’
A quarter of an hour later, he was knocking at the door of a cobbler’s shop. The shutters were drawn and a sign hanging on the doorknob said Temporarily closed.
‘Will Monsieur Fourastié be long?’ he asked a pretty young woman at a tobacconist’s shop.
‘That depends on his sciatica. When he gets one of his attacks he goes to stay with his daughter. He’s not young any more, poor fellow.’
‘And where does his daughter live?’
‘Somewhere in Marne.’
‘A lovely part of the world,’ Kenji remarked with a sigh that implied he’d like to explore the region in the company of the opposite sex.
‘That’s all I can tell you, seeing as Père Fourastié and I aren’t married. In fact, I’m not married at all…’
He flashed a charming smile at her. She looked vaguely like Eudoxie. Would the ex-queen of cancan be at Rue Alger at this hour? What if he paid her a surprise visit? He bought a cigar and turned to leave, showing the woman his best profile.
On the second floor of a small building, a curtain was drawn aside. A pair of cross-eyes peered out, fixing at length on the Asian gentleman carrying a cane with a handle in the shape of a horse’s head.
Gustave Corcol felt for a box of matches. The flame of the candle stuck in the neck of a bottle lit up the impossible shambles of the bedroom, and showed the damp patches mottling the walls. He glimpsed a fat naked man reflected in the pane of the open window.
‘Look at me,’ he said.
He hated his overly wide body, a size bigger than average. Whenever he saw it he thought it looked bloated and grotesque, like a troll. He was confused for a moment. What day was it? What time? The rhythmical ticking of a clock echoed in the sultry night. He turned and looked; it was two thirty. His trip to Rue des Dames had ended in failure. Frédéric Daglan hadn’t been home in over a week. What a lousy joke! Was he losing his touch? Gustave Corcol had never fulfilled his aspirations. He had cultivated bitterness and begun despising everybody around him. Life had thwarted him. When he joined the police force he dreamt of being promoted to chief of police, or even, why not, commissioner of the Sûreté? Twenty years on, he was still languishing in the lower echelons, bundled from station to station at the whim of servants obedient to an administration whose tentacles reached into people’s lives, deciding their fates. The only son of a penpusher at the town hall, he’d avoided conscription by paying someone to take his place. The war, the defeat, the imprisonment of Emperor Napoleon III and the proclamation of the Republic had had no effect on him. He took little interest in politics, considering it preferable to remain on the winning side. The Commune had given him an opportunity to show his zeal. This had not gone unnoticed by his superiors, and he’d climbed a few rungs on the ladder. From police constable on an annual salary of one thousand two hundred francs, he had risen to the rank of sergeant and finally to that of inspector on one thousand eight hundred francs. He had quickly learnt how to sail with the prevailing wind. He was clever at discovering the weaknesses of his superiors and concealing his own from his subordinates. However, his efforts hadn’t promoted him to the post he coveted. The recent appointment of that third-rate scribbler Raoul Pérot to assistant chief of police had crushed his hopes.
