by Claude Izner
She gathered up her clothes and buried her face in them.
‘Too late,’ she said to herself, slipping into a petticoat. Then she decided that at that point in her life she could allow herself to dream.
She put on her skirt and looked out of the window. Beyond Buttes-Chaumont, the city seemed so close it felt oppressive, like some vague threat.
Displayed in the shop window was a pair of scarlet breeches, a sky-blue fur-trimmed cloak, a plumed helmet and boots so shiny you could see your reflection in them.
‘We’re in luck, Boss, it’s still an army outfitters!’ Joseph observed, turning the door handle.
A smell of mothballs and shoe polish caught in their throats. Surrounded on all sides by uniforms, caps, shakos, epaulettes, sabres, tasselled sword-knots and red velvet saddles for general officers, they ventured over to a counter. A woman with white hair worn in a bun was spreading out on the varnished wood surface the finest collection of stirrups Victor had ever seen. A captain with a tapered moustache handled each pair as if it were a priceless jewel, while he enquired in hushed tones about the July promotions and transfers.
‘Monsieur Nervin isn’t back from the Ministry yet,’ the woman whispered. ‘If he’s had wind of any nominations, he’ll send you a telegram.’
‘I’m sure of it. They say he can probe the mysteries of the yearbook better than an astrologer and is in on the secrets of the powers that be,’ murmured the captain.
‘How may I help you, gentlemen?’ enquired a stooped shop assistant.
‘A simple piece of information,’ said Victor, stepping away from the counter. ‘Do you remember having employed a woman by the name of Ernestine Grandjean after the war?’
‘That’s going back to the time of Methuselah! I only started working here in ’86. Only Madame Rouvray will be able to tell you.’
The captain paid for his spurs and the woman with the bun was free.
‘Ernestine Grandjean? She left us a long time ago, my good man. She married a notary’s clerk who took her to Tourcoing. She sent us an announcement from there on the birth of their first child and after that we heard nothing. I was surprised.’
‘That she stopped writing?’
‘No, that she married a civilian. Not to put too fine a point on it, she had a penchant for men in uniform, and thanks to her the whole army came through here. It has to be said she was a sight for sore eyes.’
‘Was there a Paul Theneuil among her admirers?’
‘My good man, if I could remember the names of all her conquests I could write a directory of Paris society!’
‘She had a brother called Léopold. He’s the one we’re looking for; it’s a family matter.’
‘Léopold, yes. I don’t know what became of him. He worked at a printer’s in Rue Mazarine. He was a bit wild, with his mistresses and his debts; his sister was fed up with it. I’d be surprised if he managed to hold down his job.’
‘Rue Mazarine? A printing works?’
‘Next door to a café where he spent the evenings in merry company playing bouillotte.’65
The printing works where Léopold Grandjean had started out in the days of the Empire had been turned into a playing card factory. A cart full of bundles of watermarked paper from the National Printing Works was parked outside the entrance. Two porters were unloading it under the watchful eye of the owner, a ruddy-faced man from the South of France. Victor explained to him that he was looking for the heir to the recently deceased Madame Grandjean, native of Jouy-en-Argonne, Meuse.
Cyprien Plagnol wiped his brow with a large handkerchief and answered him in a sing-song voice, ‘I’ll be with you just as soon as these two lumbering oafs have finished carrying their stuff inside.’
The shed they entered was taken up by large tables where workers were busy sticking sheets of grey chiffon paper onto sheets of card printed in intaglio, which formed the backs of the playing cards. Cylinder presses were used to fuse the sheets together, and others printed the shapes and colours onto them before the finished product was dipped in a special varnish and cut into individual cards. Joseph was sneezing incessantly, the fumes of the chemicals irritating his nose, and he paid little attention to Cyprien Plagnol’s proud exposition of his métier.
‘Huh! It may look easy, this business, but the authorities have us jumping through hoops. The number of sheets they deliver, which are manufactured exclusively for the State in Thiers – why Puy de Dôme and not Patagonia? I ask myself – must tally with the number of sheets of aces or jacks of clubs we produce!’
He lovingly tapped a pack of cards, the corners of which one of the workers had just gilded using a special glue.
‘But when you see the result…’
‘It’s the same method as the one used for gilding the edges of books,’ remarked Victor.
‘Quite so, Monsieur! I see you’re well informed. I bet you can’t guess what happens to the rejects.’
‘Are they donated to schools?’ ventured Joseph.
‘Wrong! The tax office sells them by weight to manufacturers of nougat boxes and fireworks. Come and meet Maman.’
They filed down a corridor leading to a kitchen where a small swarthy woman wrapped in an enormous gathered apron was cooking delicious-smelling dishes seasoned with garlic and peppers.
‘Magali, where’s Maman?’
‘I think she’s in the sitting room.’
Joseph, whose nasal passages had enjoyed a brief respite, was overcome by a new fit of sneezing, which prevented him from pointing out to Victor that the Roman candles he’d found in Pierre Andrésy’s shop could have been made out of defective playing cards.
Cyprien Plagnol’s mother proved to be his spitting image, a stout brunette in a royal-blue tea-gown, whom he addressed considerately.
‘Maman dearest, our callers are keen to find out about a young man employed at the printing works before we bought the lease.’
‘Heavens! Look at the state of you, Cyprien! You’re covered in dirt! Sit down, gentlemen,’ she ordered, crumpling elephant-like into a wing chair.
‘You’ll have a glass of anisette,’ she proposed. ‘Anyone would think we were in Marseilles with this heat.’
Victor declined the offer.
‘And what about the tow-haired young chap?’
‘I don’t mind if I do,’ Joseph replied, ignoring Victor’s disapproving look.
‘Maman dearest, where have you put the old register with the moleskin cover?’
‘At the back of the desk with all the other papers from the notary. How does he manage to get his clothes so filthy? I realise we’re all stewing in this hot weather, but I’m no washerwoman! Well, young man, do you like it?’
Joseph sipped at his anisette. The alcohol was taking effect. His vision was obscured by a purple haze and the furniture was beginning to sway. He thought he’d better put down his glass before the dresser turned into a rhinoceros. Cyprien Plagnol came back carrying the register and handed it to Victor.
‘You’re in luck, this should have been thrown away, but we kept it thinking it might come in handy; there are still a hundred or so blank pages left.’
‘Who owned the printing works?’ asked Victor.
‘The original owner had recently sold the lease to a Monsieur Martin, and he was the one we dealt with when we bought it in September 1871,’ Madame Plagnol recollected.
‘Monsieur Martin? Damn!’ Victor cursed, opening the cover. He read:
A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit
(Milton)
YEARS 1869–1870
Employees
He turned the page.
January 1870
Bruno
Typographer
Clouange
Binder
Grandjean
Apprentice engraver
Grinchard
Layout man
Leglantier
Proofreader
Meunier
Engraver
&nb
sp; Mathieu
Stereotyper
Tardieu
Typesetter
Theneuil
Master Printer
Victor held his breath; one of the keys to this mystery was hidden in these names.
The next few pages gave details of the various jobs done by the printer’s. The same names appeared at the beginning of each month until September 1870, when there were four missing: Bruno, Clouange, Meunier and Tardieu – no doubt called up to fight for their country. The printing works continued operating with a reduced staff. In October, Grinchard and Mathieu’s names had also disappeared. Only Grandjean, Leglantier and Theneuil remained.
‘Good grief, Boss, do you see, Grandjean, Leglantier and Theneuil all worked together!’
The hubbub on Rue de Buci roused them from the apathy their astonishing discovery had plunged them into. Victor finally managed to swallow the lump in his throat.
‘Boss, we’re getting close, I can feel it! We can prove that the three men were connected. They were the only ones left up to the siege of Paris in December. Grandjean and Leglantier are dead, and Paul Theneuil has vanished into thin air…Well, what’s the matter?’
Victor was staring open-mouthed at a florist’s display on the other side of the street. The words of a ditty flashed through his mind…she loves me, she loves me not… Tasha’s hat! Tasha, their first meeting, her auburn hair which she wore in a bun and the little hat decorated with daisies.
He grabbed Joseph’s wrist.
‘Quickly, we must go back to Passage des Thermopyles.’
‘Why?’
‘I have a hunch.’
Marthe Theneuil had left the printing works to attend to her haberdashery. She was upset when Victor and Joseph burst in unexpectedly and regretted having confided details about her personal life to them. Victor’s excitement caught her unprepared.
‘Madame Theneuil, was the flower your husband signed his love letters with a daisy?’
‘What a nerve, what right have you…’
‘It is of the utmost importance.’
‘Yes. I hate the name my parents gave me. I wished I’d been named after a flower, so Paul used to call me Daisy.’
‘Did you ever give him a watch?’
She looked at him incredulously.
‘How did you know? Oh dear God! Something awful has happened!’
Joseph lied with ease.
‘We don’t know, Madame; on the contrary this may well be an encouraging sign.’
‘Paul likes to be punctual,’ she murmured. ‘A few years ago I bought him a fob watch.’
‘Did you have it inscribed?’
‘Yes. Oh, I beg you, tell me the truth, I want to know…He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘No, Madame. What was the inscription?’
‘To Paul from his Marthe in the middle of a daisy.’
‘Thank you, Madame. Rest assured, you will soon receive word,’ Victor said as he hurried outside.
‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?’ Joseph growled once they were out of earshot of the haberdashery.
‘The watch that was found next to Pierre Andrésy’s corpse, the one Inspector Lecacheur asked me and Monsieur Mori to identify, belongs to Paul Theneuil! To P—from his—e! To Paul, not to Pierre! To Paul from his Marthe, do you see?’
‘So that means—’
Joseph was unable to finish his sentence. In front of the Square de Montrouge a newspaper vendor cried out, ‘Read all about it in Le Passe-partout! Special edition! Police inspector murdered in his own bed!’
Printed in bold capitals on the front page of the daily paper was the name Gustave Corcol.
Chapter Thirteen
Evening of the same day
THEY were both keen to get to the newspaper first. Exasperated, Victor pushed Joseph over to a bench and sat down next to him beneath the crook of a bronze peasant girl from the Auvergne.
‘I’ll read aloud and that way we’ll avoid tearing it:
‘The body of Inspector Corcol was discovered yesterday evening at his home in Rue Jean-Cottin by his colleague, Monsieur Raoul Pérot, assistant chief of police at La Chapelle, who was alerted by his unusual absence. The door was unlocked, and Monsieur Pérot entered the apartment. Inspector Corcol lay naked under a sheet, with several stab wounds to his upper body and a bloodstained message on his stomach:
‘Remember, the month of May, how lovely, how gay, the month of May. God on high! Your saints are food for tigers and leopards.’
‘Boss! The leopard!’
‘There’s more, Joseph:
‘The murder must have taken place the previous night. The downstairs neighbour, a stockbroker’s widow, heard some curious noises during the night, but didn’t dare go up for fear of disturbing Monsieur Corcol, who, by all accounts, was not an easy man. The police are linking his murder to that of Monsieur Léopold Grandjean, who met a similar fate on 21 June, and that of Monsieur Edmond Leglantier, who died from gas poisoning on 17 July, because of the messages referring to a leopard left at each of the crime scenes. Monsieur le Duc de Frioul, a suspect in the Leglantier affair, has been cleared of all suspicion. As for the actor Jacques Bottelier, who was to play Ravaillac in Heart Pierced by an Arrow, he will be charged with unlawfully wounding a fellow thespian with the intention of stealing his role as the Duc d’Épernon.
‘I’ll spare you the exclusive interview with Inspector Lecacheur,’ Victor concluded, folding up the newspaper.
‘The leopard and Sacrovir are one and the same!’ exclaimed Joseph. ‘You were right not to trust Daglan – he’s the culprit.’
Victor flicked through a notebook he’d taken from his pocket.
‘You yourself told me that the Gallic chieftain distinguished himself at Autun. That’s where Mariette Trinquet said her Sacrovir hailed from. Daglan is Italian.’
‘So he says. Oh, he’s a cunning devil! He plays the victim but he’s pulling the strings.’
‘It doesn’t make sense, Joseph. He wasn’t obliged to contact me. And what is Paul Theneuil’s part in all this? What was his half-melted watch doing at Pierre Andrésy’s?’
‘Daglan might have pinched it after bumping him off. Then when he set fire to the bookbinder’s shop he dropped it by accident.’
‘Why would Daglan set fire to Andrésy’s shop?’
‘To steal the Persian manuscript.’
Victor stood up, frowning, and began circling the statue.
‘It doesn’t hang together. You’re forgetting the Ambrex shares.’
‘I’m damn well not forgetting them! This is how I see the sequence of events. Our four accomplices set up their fraudulent scheme. Each man has a speciality: Daglan steals the cigar holders; Grandjean, the painter, comes up with an eye-catching design for the shares which will attract the buyers; Theneuil prints them; and Leglantier, the smooth talker with the social contacts, sells them.’
‘And what about Corcol?’
‘He’s the man in charge. They chose him because they knew he was crooked. A flic in their pocket is an asset. But before they can start they need money. Corcol has an idea, he knows something about the value of books, and he knows that Pierre Andrésy restores rare works which can easily be sold to unscrupulous book dealers. He steals the manuscript and now they’re ready to bring the cigar holders and the shares into play. Leglantier extorts a fortune out of the mugs who buy the shares. Only they haven’t taken Daglan into account. He wants to keep the spoils for himself. He kills Theneuil, sets fire to Andrésy’s shop where he drops the famous watch then gets rid of Grandjean and Leglantier and, thanks to the messages implicating the leopard, pretends he’s the victim of a conspiracy in order to convince you of his innocence. There, don’t you like my little story?’
‘What about Corcol? What does your famous intuition tell you about that?’
‘Daglan gets rid of him, no more witnesses.’
‘Bravo, Joseph, I applaud you with both hands!’
‘Well,
I’m only putting forward theories. Isn’t life a series of inexplicable events?’ Very nice, Joseph old chap, a perfect epilogue for Thule’s Golden Chalice. ‘What are your objections, Boss?’
‘It’s the idea of the money which bothers me. What did they need it for? They had no accomplices to pay off because, as you so brilliantly pointed out, they each had their own speciality. Besides, do you think Daglan and Grandjean would have been foolish enough to sign their names on the Ambrex shares as directors? And how do you know Theneuil is dead?’
‘The watch, you yourself…’
‘The watch may be a red herring. It wouldn’t be the first time a criminal left a false clue.’
‘All right, what if Theneuil is still alive and he and Daglan are in this together?’ Joseph suggested.
‘Let’s not get carried away. We must…’
Victor stood aside to make way for two stout ladies carrying folding stools, who installed themselves a few yards further on.
‘We must keep in mind two riddles, which aren’t necessarily related. One surrounds Pierre Andrésy and the other the Ambrex shares affair, which I refuse to believe he was mixed up in.’
‘Not wishing to contradict you, Boss, your two mysteries have one thing in common: Gustave Corcol,’ said Joseph, drawing level with Victor.
Irritated by a flock of pigeons gathered round the two stout ladies’ feet, they turned off towards the town hall.
‘I’ve another idea, Boss. Corcol dreams up the shares swindle and decides to abscond with the proceeds. He murders Theneuil then publishes the death notice in order to point the finger at Daglan. He kills Andrésy, steals the Persian manuscript, and sets the shop on fire after planting Paul Theneuil’s watch as evidence. Then he eliminates Grandjean and Leglantier and is planning to get rid of Daglan when Daglan strikes first. Are you listening to me, Boss?’
