In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (29 page)

‘No more than our apprentice’s accursed cat,’ grumbled Monsieur Leuze. ‘I’m sorry, gentlemen, but my time is precious. This situation has caused us a lot of trouble because Madame Theneuil hasn’t the necessary experience to replace her husband, although she’s doing her best.’

‘Where can we find her?’

‘Up on the first floor, in the glass-fronted office.’

The woman who opened the door to them had the drawn features of a person who hasn’t slept for several days. Her unkempt hair and crumpled dress betrayed her distress more than her faltering voice and her deceptively formal manner. Almost immediately, her self-control broke down and she collapsed onto a chair, burying her head in her hands. She pulled herself together and apologised.

‘I’m very distressed…My husband is no saint, but I put up with his peccadilloes. When he feels the need to go off, he lets me know, and arranges things so that the business won’t suffer because of his escapades. The last time I saw him was on the evening of 4 July. I was making his favourite dish, jugged hare. He stopped by the haberdasher’s to tell me that he’d be home a bit late because he had a meeting with a customer who’d ordered some posters.’

‘I thought he only printed books.’

‘Oh, he’d occasionally do a favour for an old friend.’

‘Who was he meeting?’

‘I don’t know. It was raining and he’d forgotten his umbrella.’

‘What was he wearing?’

‘A brown jacket. I told the police.’

‘Did he wear spectacles?’

‘Yes, half-moon spectacles, but only for reading. Now…I’m afraid, I’m so afraid!’

She stood up and pointed to a pile of papers scattered over the table.

‘I can’t cope any more…You see, I run a haberdasher’s down the street. I could have stopped working a long time ago because business is going well, only I wanted to save up for a rainy day. Paul is so unreliable! But he loves me, I know he does. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Did the Chief of Police send you?’

‘No, we’re from the newspaper.’

‘Oh! You’re not going to repeat…’

‘Don’t worry. We’re also trying to find out the truth. Did your husband ever receive any threats?’

‘He never said anything. He would have told me. He still confided in me – despite our relationship being more like that of a brother and sister. Over the years physical attraction had turned into deep affection. I was his old pal, yes, that’s what he would call me, either that or his pet…He’d stopped calling me “darling”. And yet…’

Marthe Theneuil twisted her lips into a pitiful smile.

‘And yet, our love was once so passionate that we believed it would last for ever. When we first met, he showered me with gifts, and I gave him presents too. And then I no longer fulfilled his needs. No doubt he didn’t find me attractive enough.’

Victor and Joseph examined the gaunt face framed by a mass of dishevelled hair and reflected that in her normal state Marthe Theneuil was undeniably still appealing. Victor couldn’t help exclaiming, ‘And aren’t you jealous of these other women?’

She remained silent for a moment then looked him straight in the eye.

‘Why should I be? He always comes back to me. That part of Paul’s life is not my concern. Besides, it makes him happier. Men seem to have an inborn need to seduce. When they’re deprived of that, they become depressed and God knows what else. You’re still young, Monsieur, but the same will happen to you.’

‘Oh, no, certainly not. That would be immoral!’ he cried.

Joseph was overtaken by a sudden fit of coughing, which he muffled with a handkerchief before saying, ‘Monsieur Leuze showed us the famous note. Does this leopard bring anybody to mind?’

‘No. It might refer to a friend or relative, or to one of his mistresses, although most of them are ill-bred tarts. I went through all his papers and correspondence with a fine-tooth comb and, apart from our early love letters, the only others of any interest were those he exchanged with Ernestine Grandjean, the sister of a childhood friend whom he courted before he met me.’

Joseph scratched his head furiously to allay suspicion.

‘Grandjean?’ he repeated.

‘Yes, Léopold Grandjean. He and Paul saw a lot of each other despite the difference in their ages. My husband thought of him as the little brother he’d always wanted; he was a youth of seventeen at the time. Ernestine must have been about twenty, and from what I’ve read Paul was besotted with her. She was flattered by his attentions, but felt no attraction for him.’

Victor was surreptitiously leaning over the table trying to glimpse the bundle of letters tied with a blue ribbon which Marthe Theneuil was covering with her hands. He noticed a few bills, engravings of the latest mechanical presses, paper samples and some other letters with a flower for a signature. She realised what he was up to.

‘I couldn’t help rereading some of our old letters dating back to 1873 when we were first in love. Paul was forty but looked ten years younger. I was a young girl of eighteen from the provinces, mesmerised by the big city and by this quiet, serious man to whom my father had introduced me – they’d belonged to the same regiment. It took me months to get to know him, months to discover that underneath that calm exterior he was a womaniser. But I won’t lose him,’ she exclaimed vehemently.

‘Don’t despair. We’ll track him down,’ said Joseph, who was beginning to feel concerned.

And then immediately he added, matter-of-factly, ‘Would you consent to give us Ernestine Grandjean’s address?’

‘I only know the one Paul used to send his letters to: 5, Rue Villedo, next to the gardens of the Palais-Royal. I’d be surprised if she’s still there; it was where she worked, an army outfitter’s.’

‘Could you let us have a photograph of your husband?’

‘Yes, it was taken last year. I gave the most recent one to the police.’

‘Is Monsieur Theneuil a tall man?’

‘A head higher than you.’

Victor and Joseph took their leave, eager to compare notes. When the door had closed, Marthe Theneuil walked over and stood in front of the glass wall, her figure silhouetted against the backdrop of the bustling workshop. She crossed her arms, pressing them tightly to her chest.

Djina Kherson listened to her daughter’s footsteps dying away down the corridor. Love suited Tasha. It gave her a golden glow, like a freshly baked brioche straight out of the oven. Without acknowledging it, Djina envied her. She crossed the empty studio where her pupils had left the odd glove or scarf strewn about. She gathered up the abandoned palettes and paintbrushes and returned to the sanctuary of her apartment, which she was reluctant to leave. Despite the attention she received from her daughter and her daughter’s lover Victor – should she call him her fiancé now? – she felt dreadfully lonely. She missed Ruhléa, to whom she’d always been closer than to her elder daughter. And Pinkus…Although he’d been little more than an occasional companion these past few years, the fact that she’d refused divorce and that they’d kept up their correspondence had helped Djina to cope with the vagaries of her own life. Then there had been exile, the time spent in Germany, her illness. Tasha had persuaded her to come and live in Paris. That prospect, so enticing from afar, had lost its appeal as soon as she came face to face with everyday life. Pinkus lived thousands of miles away on the other side of the Atlantic, and Ruhléa was somewhere in the depths of central Europe with a husband she had never met, whose portrait, confined in its wooden frame on the mantelpiece, sized up his mother-in-law with a mysterious expression. Yes, Tasha and Victor were very attentive and she owed them a great deal, and yet…

What had she learnt? That exile and separation were a means of understanding, day after day, with great difficulty and forbearance, the things she had felt and thought since the day she was born. This introspection surreptitiously revealed what had up until then been only a vague intuition. The end result of all those joys, struggles and disappointments seemed so trivial that she felt a sense of apathy and despair.

She went and stood in front of the mirror. Forty-seven, a few silver hairs. Some wrinkles, a slightly saggy neck. She’d kept her figure. Could a man still find her attractive? She slowly undid her blouse, unbuttoned her skirt, removed her underwear, and unlaced her corset. Standing in the middle of the pile of clothing, her nakedness appeared to her as frail as a winter flower. She let her hair down and shook it out; it looked better loose. The soft light took years off her: a Djina with firm breasts, her waist slightly hollowed above the curve of her buttocks, stood exposed, awakened, filled with longing and desire. She stroked her belly. Would a man’s hands caress her skin again? Would his voice whisper words of love in her ear as he pushed against her gently? She’d only known Pinkus; would she dare make love to another man?

She couldn’t say exactly when she’d allowed Kenji Mori to become so prominent in her thoughts – no doubt when she began to notice that her pulse quickened whenever she saw him. Absurd! A Japanese man…

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.’