In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (10 page)

‘Well, there was the incident.’

‘What incident?’

‘When that nice Monsieur Grandjean, the enamellist from Rue des Boulets, was murdered. It was in all the papers. He came here every morning for his coffee. He used to tease Fernand, he’s our waiter: “A white coffee please, Fernand. In the cup not in the saucer!”’

‘Were you there?’

Madame Mathias cracked her knuckles and poured two glasses of white wine.

‘Yes, my good fellow, I was the first to arrive on the scene. There was blood everywhere, before they cleaned it up of course. Upon my word! I still get dreadfully upset when I talk about it. Feel,’ she said, seizing his hand and placing it over her heart.

‘It is beating very fast,’ agreed Frédéric Daglan, his hand lingering on her ample bosom, which heaved like a rolling sea at his touch.

Madame Mathias gave a sigh and Frédéric Daglan took his hand away.

‘Oh, you naughty man,’ she simpered, ‘you’ve got me all flustered. I can’t remember what I was saying.’

‘Do go on, you’re an excellent storyteller,’ he murmured, leaning closer to her.

‘Oh yes, I’ll never forget those staring eyes. I screamed every bit as loud as Josette Fatou. She’s the one who alerted the whole neighbourhood – she saw the whole thing. I went out and calmed her down; she was hysterical, and with good reason. I told Fernand: “Go and fetch the police.” Ah! We have so little – we should have some fun when we can, eh, my good fellow?’

‘Josette? Who’s Josette?’

‘A little dark-skinned flower girl who lives in Rue des Boulets.’

‘Did she see the murderer?’

‘Who knows? She swears she didn’t, but understandably she’s scared. Just imagine if he came back to shut her up. Have another glass of Sancerre – on the house.’

‘It’s very kind of you, Madame, but I really must be going,’ he said wearily.

‘Let me twist your arm. There are no customers at this time of day. Stay to lunch. I’ll make you a potato omelette. You’ll never taste better.’

Seeing that he was wavering, she added, ‘My cooking is like music; it soothes the stomach. And who knows,’ she said, lightly brushing his sample case with her fingers, ‘I may even change my mind.’

She chuckled and looked at him archly. ‘The sad truth is that I’ve been a widow a long time, and at my age a woman gets lonely…’

Wednesday 12 July

Micheline Ballu pulled on her cotton stockings.

‘It’s going to rain,’ she muttered. ‘My corns are giving me gyp – that’s a sure sign.’

She went over to the window, flopped into her armchair and surveyed the coming dawn.

‘Well, a spot of rain would save me having to wash the courtyard. Cleaning really takes it out of you in this heat! Anyway, it rains every other Bastille Day without fail.’

She would begin by emptying the dustbins then wait for the postman. After that she’d heat up some coffee and finish reading her serial. The years had flown by since her poor husband Onésime had died, and her rheumatism was so bad now that she dreaded the day she’d no longer be able to carry out the tasks required of her. The landlord had already made it plain that he was doing her an enormous favour by allowing her to manage his building all on her own. With only one living relative – her cousin Alphonse, who was in the army and always on the move – what would become of her if her services were no longer needed? Thank heavens for that nice Monsieur Legris – such a kind and considerate gentleman. He’d promised her the free use of a maid’s room he owned on the top floor of the building so that she wouldn’t be forced to leave her beloved neighbourhood.

She put on her old slippers. Since poor Onésime had died, she’d grown stout and her face, once graceful, had become bloated and jowly. She drew some consolation from the knowledge that her friend Euphrosine was on the same slippery slope. It created a bond between them, like an old couple, sharing confidences, falling out with each other, making up, each alert to the slightest hint of a reproach from the other.

Micheline Ballu hauled herself up out of her chair.

‘There are no two ways about it, life’s a rotten joke and the last laugh is on us! Our bodies grow dilapidated but inside we still feel fifteen.’

Rue Visconti ran along between Rue de Seine and Rue Bonaparte. The house where Madame Pignot and her son lived was located in the narrowest part of the street. A studded door led into a cobbled courtyard where stables once used as coach houses had since been transformed into sheds.

One of these, adjoining the old lodge of a seventeenth-century nobleman’s house, was Joseph’s study, his refuge, crammed with books, magazines, newspapers and military paraphernalia from the Franco-Prussian War. This ivory tower gave on to the two-bedroomed ground-floor apartment and kitchen he shared with his mother, Euphrosine, former costermonger now housekeeper to her son’s bosses, Monsieur Mori and Monsieur Legris.

Just inside the entrance to the apartment stood a small stone privy, which Euphrosine called either her house of ease or her
buen retiro –
an expression in vogue among the upper classes. This relic from the Age of Enlightenment was her pride and joy, despite not having a flushing mechanism. The wooden seat with its acanthus-leaf design and the chipped pink marble bowl offered a degree of comfort that was only found in middle-class homes. The biggest drawbacks were the smell and the flies, which in stormy weather would spill over into the bedrooms. Euphrosine tackled these twin pests with copious amounts of water and ammonia, a product that irritated the mucous membranes. For Joseph this chamber, which even the king entered on foot, was a godsend: he could lock himself in there for ages and dream up new plots for his serialised novels away from his mother’s prying eyes.

‘Run along, pet! I’m going to give your father’s museum a good scrubbing before it gets too hot. It’s the early bird who catches the worm.’

‘And why not the owl?’ protested Joseph, packing up his things and leaving the room.

Armed with a duster, shovel and broom, Euphrosine began her relentless assault on his sanctuary.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Ah! The cross I have to bear! I am the most unfortunate of souls!’

She glanced up at the crucifix wedged between two piles of journals, and rubbed her back before kneeling awkwardly.

‘Lord, have mercy on me for I have sinned. I know very well that a fault confessed is half redressed, but however will I explain to my boy that me and his dad lived outside the sacraments of marriage? I’m afraid it might drive him to despair if he finds out that in the eyes of the law I’m still Mademoiselle Courlac. He’s such a sensitive soul!’

She rose to her feet and half-heartedly dusted a sideboard then appealed despondently to the crucifix.

‘And while I think of it, try to make him a bit more tolerant, and force him to be less harsh on Mademoiselle Iris. Let them get married and give me some grandchildren, even if they do look Chinese.
Amen,
thy will be done.’

Feeling more cheerful, she began whistling the first few bars of
Les Cuirassiers de Reichshoffen
²⁶
as she set about cleaning with gusto.

Joseph was meditating on the edge of the toilet seat. His novel had been languishing in the doldrums since his love life had turned sour. He was finding it extremely difficult to think up what might happen next in
Thule’s Golden Chalice
!

‘Concentrate. Frida von Glockenspiel is in the cellar. Her mastiff is scrabbling furiously at the floor. Where do the human shinbones that the mutt digs up come from?’ he pondered.

His gaze fell on the wodge of newspaper cut into squares that was hanging from a hook to the right of the toilet. He tore one off and read under his breath:

‘Nobody knew that the man strolling beneath the arcades on Rue de Rivoli had once been a renowned writer. Alas, fame is all too fleeting! An author’s words are written on the wind.
²⁷

To be continued in the next issue
²⁸

‘There’s no danger of that happening to me. They’ll still be talking about my
Chalice
in 1950!’

He pulled off another square. In the middle of the advertisements section, a notice framed in black jumped out at him.

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.’

Stunned, Joseph reread the text. Impossible! The fire had only happened last Wednesday!

He searched frantically for the name of the newspaper as he tore the squares off the hook. He crammed the whole lot into his pockets and raced back to his study.

Euphrosine had mounted a successful operation and the dust had been routed. A sprig of anemones brightened up the rows of books and magazines next to the gleaming spiked helmets and shell cartridges ready to pass muster. The cretonne curtain was drawn across the window.

Joseph made a quick assessment of the damage: an urgent assignment would require returning the room to its former chaos, which was key to his creativity.

‘I hope you haven’t used any of
my
newspapers for toilet paper!’ he yelled.

‘May God strike me down if I ever dare touch your things, pet! Madame Ballu lets me have
Le Figaro
once she’s done reading her serial. You should be grateful to have them at hand instead of grumbling. And don’t give me that tragic look! Just like an old bachelor with his quirky habits! Monsieur’s breakfast is served.’

‘Do you know the dates for these
Figaro
s?’

‘How should I know? I only cut them up for toilet paper. You’ll have to ask Madame Ballu!’

Joseph, his mouth twisted in a bitter smile, couldn’t help himself and declared, ‘I wish I was an orphan!’

This was the last straw. Euphrosine’s face turned bright red.

‘And to think I work my fingers to the bone day in day out, washing his clothes, cooking him nice meals, slaving away and all for what? Just so that I can pick up the pieces!’

‘What pieces?’

‘The pieces of your broken marriage! Oh, I’ll have a clear conscience when I leave this world. I bled myself dry to bring up this great oaf. I made sacrifices. I never took up with another man. And this is what I get for giving up life’s pleasures. Monsieur refuses to make me a grandmother!’

Euphrosine Pignot beat her chest vehemently.

‘I can forget about bouncing babies on my knee, even if they are half Japanese half Charentais!’

She went away grumbling to herself, ‘Oh, the ungrateful brat! This is the thanks I get for giving him a nice new toilet! Honestly!’

Resigned, Joseph placed the scraps of newspaper on his desk and slipped the death notice into his jotter.

‘I tell you, Madame Primolin, these students! The government’s closed the local trade union office. Talk about a hullabaloo!’

‘My husband is very concerned. I expect we’ll be going to stay with our cousins in Ville-d’Avray,’ replied an elderly lady with a sigh, before beginning her climb to the fourth floor.

‘That’s right, fly away, little birds, it’ll make less work for me,’ muttered Madame Ballu, bumping into Joseph with the dustbin she was pushing.

‘Watch where you’re going, lad!’

‘Sorry. I came to ask about the copies of
Le Figaro
you gave my mother. Do you know the date they came out?’

‘It’s written on them.’

‘They’ve been torn up so it’s impossible to tell.’

‘Well, it’s nice to know my gifts are appreciated! I gave her a huge pile. The tenant on the third floor lets me have them. I love the serials. The one I’m reading now is terribly sad. It’s about an old writer who…That reminds me, how’s your serial going?’

‘I’m about to finish it. About those newspapers, do you have any idea of the date?’

‘The beginning of the month.’

‘Which month?’

‘This month of course, July!’

Joseph hurried off to open the bookshop, leaving the concierge standing there ranting at the dustbin about the general decline in manners.

The guardian angel of shop assistants was watching over Jojo: Monsieur Mori had gone out and Monsieur Legris was sailing up and down on his bicycle between Debauve & Gallais, purveyors of fine toiletries, and the bookshop.

‘Boss, I’ve something most peculiar to show you.’

He handed the notice to Victor, who examined it critically.

‘The typesetter was probably in his cups. I say, it seems Salomé de Flavignol has had a revelation. Now that Guy de Maupassant is dead she wants to read his complete works. Kenji has made up a parcel for delivery this morning.’

‘Is that all you can say?’ Joseph was fuming. His boss, who fancied himself a super-sleuth, was pooh-poohing his discoveries.

‘It makes no sense, Joseph! Pierre Andrésy died on 5 July so the date of the funeral couldn’t possibly be 25 May. I don’t suppose they’d hold his corpse for burial until next spring. You really shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.’

Narrowing his eyes, Joseph snatched up his cap and the parcel of books.

‘Well, if that’s the way it is, I’m off. It’s stifling in here!’

Jojo stormed out. Victor leant on the counter, resting his chin on his clenched fists. A shadow danced before him, beckoning. No! He wouldn’t give in to his old demon. He’d promised Tasha: no more cases.

‘
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’
Jojo murmured, quoting Dante.

He had got shot of the parcel at Mademoiselle Flavignol’s house and, acting on a whim, had dipped into his own purse for the cab fare to Porte de la Chapelle.

After wandering about for quarter of an hour looking for the phantom cemetery, he asked directions from an old tramp who was sharing a piece of cheese rind with his dog.