In the Shadows of Paris (10 page)

A cart carrying stone blocks to repair a building had blocked narrow Rue Visconti. Joseph went out to complain to the two stonemasons who were unloading the cart outside number 24, former abode of Jean Racine and Mademoiselle Clairon.

‘How long do we have to put up with this din?'

The builders, who were Italians, carried on working and singing a Neapolitan song at the tops of their voices.

‘Don't waste your breath – they can't understand a word you say,' advised Père Huchet, the owner of a stall selling sparkling wine at ten centimes a glass.

Fuming, Joseph went back indoors and grabbed some bread from the kitchen to plug his ears with the soft part before returning to his study. He thanked his mother for having bought the fresh loaf before going to prepare lunch at Rue des Saints-Pères, where he didn't have to begin work until midday. Chewing on the end of his fountain pen, the only gift from Iris to which he was still attached, he cursed the bad luck dogging his literary creation, and tried to gather his thoughts.

‘“Frida von Glockenspiel heard a creak and swung round brandishing a rolling pin like a club. Footsteps echoed at the back of the keep. Éleuthère bared his teeth. Who was approaching?…”
That is the question
,' he murmured with a sigh.

He pushed away the notebook entitled
Thules's Golden Chalice
and opened his scrapbook of news items, which he relied on for inspiration. The last two cuttings he'd added had come unstuck. He smoothed them out with his forefinger.

‘“There are still no clues in the case of the murder victim, Léopold Grandjean, stabbed on 21 June…‘Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense, May has made of ours a solitary pursuit,'”' Joseph read out under his breath. ‘“‘Can an Ethiopian change the colour of his skin any more than a leopard his spots?'”'

He went on to read the death notice.

‘“Cousin Léopardus invites friends and customers of Monsieur Pierre Andrésy, bookbinder of Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, Paris, to attend his funeral at La Chapelle cemetery on 25 May. ‘For the blossom in May beckons us from the fields.'”'

He repeated, puzzled, ‘The blossom in May…Cousin Léopardus…Can an Ethiopian change his skin any more than a leopard his spots? Why the insistence on animals in these two seemingly unrelated texts? And May is also mentioned twice. A leopard in May. Something to do with the zodiac? May…that's Taurus the bull and Gemini and the twins. A March hare or an April fool? I've no idea what this means, but I'm going to find out.'

 

Number 26 was an overly ornate building made of old grey stone on the corner of Rue Drouot and Rue de Provence in the heart of the boulevard district. In a niche above the entrance, a bronze statuette of Figaro from
The Barber of Seville
was exposed to the improprieties of the pigeons. Joseph nodded at him, and, to make himself feel braver, boosted his courage by recalling that he was a detective
di qualita
. He walked through the newsroom of the illustrious newspaper to where a dejected-looking secretary sat. Despite his slight hunch, Joseph was an attractive young man and brought out a protective instinct in the opposite sex. He put on his most forlorn look – tousled hair, doleful eyes – and sighed loudly.

‘Mademoiselle, you've no idea how wretched I feel…Outside people laugh and sing while I…While I'm mourning the passing of my beloved uncle, who was like a father to me. This I might be able to bear, but to think that some crank could find no better way of amusing himself than by giving you false information…!'

He whipped out the notice. The young girl, looking up, hurriedly straightened the satin-brimmed hat that covered her curls.

‘I just write out the text, count the words and direct the customers to the cashier. Once they've paid their one franc fifty centimes per line containing thirty-four words and shown me their receipt, I send their message on to the printer. I'm not expected to do any more than that, Monsieur.'

But if you're nice to me there's no knowing what I might do for you, her expression suggested.

‘Even so, Mademoiselle, giving notice of a funeral on 25 May for a fellow who breathed his last gasp on 5 July is no small blunder.'

‘Oh, I've seen worse. How about: “Generous reward for the finder of Trompette, a Brahmapoutra chicken recently gone missing in the vicinity of Sainte-Geneviève mountain.” In comparison to yours…'

‘You have to admit, it's curious.'

‘I'm not paid to be curious. All they ask of me is to publish. The number of nutcases who come through here, it's amazing!'

‘I sympathise, Mademoiselle, and I admire your dedication. But if you could just check the date when this bizarre notice was placed, I'd be eternally grateful.'

She shrugged and began rummaging through a couple of desk drawers.

‘How does it begin?'

‘Cousin Léopardus requests…'

‘L, L, L…Here it is. Somebody placed the notice on 4 July but don't ask me who. Is there anything else?'

‘Do you really have no recollection of who placed it?'

The young girl moistened her lips then examined her nails.

‘Straight off I'd say no, though sometimes I only need a little something, a sorbet or a drink to refresh my memory. I get off for lunch at one, so if you fancy…'

She blushed and, too nervous to look the irresistible fair-haired young man in the eye, began stamping a pile of forms.

Joseph beat a cowardly retreat.

‘Poor girl, she tried and failed…A pretty thing, too. But I'm not as fickle as some people I know. I'll never pay for a favour in kind…4 July, the day before the fire! I don't get it. Monsieur Anatole France is right: “We are only troubled by what we do not understand.” I must resolve to look into this affair with Monsieur Legris's help. Even though his brain cells are painfully slow to get going, once they're fully firing there's no stopping him. When he's on form that is…'

Wrapped up in his thoughts, he reached Notre-Dame-de-Lorette. He was filled with sadness as he recalled the stroll he had taken there with a friend who had died under tragic circumstances.

‘Denise de Louarn
³²
…Valentine…Let's be honest, women find me attractive. Mademoiselle Tasha would doubtless have succumbed to my charms had it not been for Monsieur Victor. She used to call me her
moujik
. That's a point, Mademoiselle Tasha lives near here. With any luck at this time of day I'll find the lovebird still in his nest!'

Scarcely had he reached Rue Fontaine, when a clap of thunder boomed above his head. Rain poured down over the city. Joseph took shelter under the awning of a grocer's and waited impatiently for the torrent to subside. ‘Hell's bells!' he shouted as a passing cab splashed him with muddy water. People scurried past, slipping on the wet cobbles; umbrellas collided. A mewling came from below. A ball of wet fur was rubbing itself against the hem of his trouser leg.

‘Hey, stop that flea bag, clear off!'

A fawn mask with two little yellow eyes staring up at him plaintively broke down his resistance. He picked up the kitten and held it in his arms; he could feel its heart beating through his frock coat. One stroke was enough to set off a loud purring, and a rough tongue licked his wrist.

‘Where did you come from, puss? Is he yours?' he asked a small girl standing next to him in the open doorway of the shop.

She had a terrible squint and began tapping on one of the shop-front mouldings.

she chanted, much to the annoyance of her mother, who was busy serving a customer.

‘Come back inside at once, you wicked child! You'll catch your death,' she called out.

‘A great help,' groaned Joseph. ‘Who does this clingy creature belong to? Hey, moth-eaten moggy, hop it!'

The kitten had snuggled up in his arms and was purring at full volume. Its muzzle and paws were white. As for its tail, it had a big kink in it and ended in a scrawny tuft that looked like it had been plucked.

‘You're stuck with that alley cat, mister!' the little girl pronounced before disappearing into the shop.

 

After a night and a morning spent commemorating in bed the storming of the Bastille and the fête de la Fédération, Tasha had just said goodbye to Victor and pulled on a cotton smock when there was a knock at the door.

‘Joseph! You're soaked.'

‘To the skin! Is Monsieur Victor here?'

‘You've just missed him. Oh! Isn't he gorgeous!'

‘I picked him up in your street. I think he's hungry.'

He put the kitten down on the floor. It arched its back and took refuge under Tasha's skirts, purring like an engine.

‘Have you seen his tail? It looks like a brush,' Joseph said.

‘A proper artist's cat! He's superb with his little mask and stripy coat and white mittens…I'll go and fetch him some milk.'

While she was busy in the kitchen, Joseph, accompanied by his protégé, went to nose about in the entrance cluttered with canvas stretchers and books. His eye fell on a cardboard tube with charred edges lying on a pedestal table among the other bits and bobs. Tasha gave little brush-tail a saucer of milk, which he lapped up greedily.

‘He's so funny-looking. I think I'll keep him.'

‘You've taken a weight off my mind, Mademoiselle Tasha. Maman would have given me what for if I'd dared bring him home. What will Monsieur Legris say?'

‘Well, Joseph, you know the expression: what a woman wants…'

Joseph had picked up the tube and was studying the drawings on it.

‘We could have gone without streetlights for a month with the amount of Bengal lights they set off last night! Well, little brush-tail, is your tummy full? Would you be prepared to share my humble lodgings?' Tasha asked.

The kitten stopped preening itself and let out a loud
miaow
.

‘Joseph, he said yes!'

‘Maybe he speaks Russian and Japanese, too. You'll never be short of a penny with that clown around.'

Tasha scratched the kitten's belly then examined it more closely.

‘Mm, I think he's got company…And what's more
he
is a
she
.'

‘How can you tell?'

‘There's a distinct lack of…How do you say that in French?'

‘Er…'

‘Male accoutrements. Little brush-tail, I hereby name you Kochka,' she announced.

‘Kochka?'

‘It means cat in Russian.'

‘Well, Mademoiselle Tasha, Mademoiselle Kochka, I must go. Maman will be here soon with your shopping and her army of mops…'

And, if I hurry, I can dally a wee bit at home before getting back to the grindstone in Rue des Saints-Pères, he thought as he said goodbye.

 

On his way home on the omnibus, Joseph had the niggling feeling that he had missed something important. However, rather like the phantom itching which no amount of scratching could relieve, the elusive thought kept escaping his grasp. It was only when he was shut away in his study, close to the crate he used for a desk, that an image materialised in his mind of a cardboard tube covered in caricatures identical to the ones lying between his pen and his novelist's notebook. This discovery sent an electric shock through his brain.

‘Those tubes I found in the wreckage at Pierre Andrésy's shop!…Bengal lights? Roman candles? Blimey! What do you think, Papa?' he asked the photograph of the jolly-faced bookseller leaning up against a wall in Quai Voltaire. ‘Might the blaze have been started by fireworks? You wouldn't know, eh?'

Joseph felt as if he were looking at the facts through murky water.

‘But it doesn't make sense! Why would anybody let off fireworks ten days before Bastille Day? Unless it was deliberate…Good heavens! I've found a clue, I'm sure! I must let the boss know straight away.'

Intoxicated by speed, Victor was cycling along Boulevard Saint-Germain. His rubber-tyred chrome bicycle, fitted with a dynamo and a horn, filled him with pride. Perched on his sprung saddle, he dodged the traffic hold-ups. Farewell to interminable journeys and to sore feet!

The cobblestones raced beneath his wheels. At the corner of Rue Jacob stood the good ship Elzévir, where he was to take over the watch so that Kenji and Iris could spend the afternoon together. He allowed himself a calculated skid before mounting the pavement and rolling to a halt in front of number 18.

Of course Joseph was nowhere to be seen. Recently, he'd developed a casualness and laxity towards his work, which Victor found particularly irksome.

‘I'll have to have a word.'

Having parked his precious bicycle at the back of the shop, he went upstairs to eat a plate of warm ratatouille washed down with a glass of white wine. When the door bell tinkled and a voice called out: ‘Is anybody there?' he raced downstairs, intent on giving his assistant a piece of his mind. But Joseph wouldn't let him get a word in edgeways. He launched into a wild story about a death notice in
Le Figaro
, a leopard, the month of May and some empty tubes smelling of gunpowder.