In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (3 page)

When the second crate was opened it was found to contain nothing but sand.

According to Inspector Pachelin, the burglar must have hidden in the first crate, which had a removable side. He then cut a disc-shaped hole in the door of the jeweller’s just wide enough for him to enter the shop. Having grabbed the loot, he climbed back into the crate, replaced the wooden disc and covered his traces with putty and a paint containing drying agent. All he had to do then was wait until his accomplice came back to swap the crates.

‘Clever, isn’t it, Boss? Still, it seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a few cigar holders and pipes!’

Glancing up from his newspaper, Joseph was dismayed to see Victor absorbed in reading the order list.

‘You’re not listening.’

‘You’re wrong there, Joseph. I’m hanging on your every word. This crime reminds me of Hugo de Groot’s
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daring escape.’

‘Who?’

‘Hugo de Groot – a seventeenth-century Dutch lawyer who was imprisoned for life in Loevestein Castle. Escape seemed impossible. He was allowed books, which he devoured in such quantities that they had to be ferried in and out in a trunk. Two years into his incarceration, Hugo decided to try his luck. He climbed into the trunk and managed to escape. You see how reading brings freedom, Joseph.’

‘Yes…but I don’t see what that has to do with cigar holders?’

‘Nothing…Aren’t you supposed to be delivering a copy of Pierre Maël’s
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Honour and Country
to the Comtesse de Salignac?’

‘I’ve already been there, and it wasn’t any fun! I see you have great faith in me! You’re getting a bit tyrannical, Boss!’

Joseph, furious, snatched up a pair of scissors and cut out the article, muttering to himself. ‘The boss should learn to hold his tongue. If this goes on much longer, I’ll be off to greener pastures.’

‘Believe me, Joseph, you’d soon tire of the countryside; nothing can compare to the thrill of the city. I’m sorry if I upset you – I didn’t intend to.’

‘You’re forgiven, Boss,’ Joseph decreed loftily.

‘Would you like to see the gift Mademoiselle Iris and I have chosen for Monsieur Mori’s birthday?’

‘When is it?’

‘The twenty-second.’

‘How old will he be?’

‘Fifty-four. You’re invited to the little gathering.’

‘I shan’t be going, and you know why. What are you giving him?’

‘A rare volume on Japan.’

‘Are you trying to make your adoptive father homesick? How long is it since he left, twenty or thirty years? He should take his daughter on a pilgrimage. They’re very strong on loyalty over there!’

‘A little more respect for Mademoiselle Iris, please, Joseph. She hasn’t been unfaithful to you.’

‘I’m only pointing out that your half-sister’s European side has made her frivolous.’ Joseph added, bitterly, ‘And anyway, what’s keeping me here?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! All you do is whine and moan and feel sorry for yourself! Show a bit of spirit, for goodness’ sake! Don’t give up at the first hurdle! I’m sure she loves you and is full of remorse; she never stops saying so, you great dolt!’

Victor composed himself then paused before adding, ‘Jojo, I hope that you two haven’t…er, well, you know, the birds and the bees and the butterflies…’

‘No, Boss, we vowed not to give in to our animal instincts before marriage and, if you want the truth, I regret it,’ replied Joseph.

He looked at Victor with a strange expression then burst out angrily, ‘If it had been you, if Mademoiselle Tasha had behaved like that, you would have had fifty fits, with your suspicious nature!’

‘Me? Suspicious?’

Shocked and horrified, Victor threw his arms up to heaven, ready to swear that he’d cured himself of his bad habit, when the doorbell tinkled.

Blanche de Cambrésis swept in. The lace trim on her dark-red pleated dress snagged on a pile of Émile Zola’s
Doctor Pascal
, recently published by Charpentier and Fasquelle, bringing it crashing to the floor. Victor gathered up the books while his visitor remarked on how cramped the shop was.

‘We remove the chairs, replace the desk with a pedestal table and still the battle-axe isn’t satisfied,’ muttered Joseph, who was hiding behind a wall of quarto volumes.

‘Is it any good?’ asked Blanche de Cambrésis, whose haughty expression made her look like a nanny-goat.

‘Tripe, Madame, utter tripe. How may I help you?’ Victor enquired in a conciliatory voice.

Unable to bear it any longer, Joseph made a dash for the back of the shop where he vented his anger.

‘Just listen to him fawning. He probably expects me to grovel at his sister’s feet, though he wasn’t exactly keen on our engagement in the beginning, any more than Monsieur Mori. But now the tables are turned, they can’t wait for me to marry her and put a stop to all the gossip. Even Maman has turned against me. It’s not fair!’ he muttered, dusting off the coats-of-arms on the backs of a set of hardbacks.

The touch of leather in his hands calmed his rage. Images of the not so distant past flashed painfully through his mind. How fleeting his joy had been back in February when his bosses had not only celebrated his engagement to Iris but given him a rise. Since then he’d been earning one thousand six hundred francs a year. This allowed him to put aside a substantial sum as he and Iris would be taking over Monsieur Legris’s old flat above the bookshop. Joseph had been keen to move in as soon as possible, but had said nothing to his future wife, who appeared not to share his need for independence, and was still very attached to her father.

And then Mademoiselle Tasha, whom he so admired, had taken it into her head to paint Iris’s portrait! How was he to know it would be the cause of such strife? Accordingly, he’d no more objected to his fiancée posing for her than he’d tried to dissuade her from taking twice-weekly watercolour lessons with Mademoiselle Tasha’s mother, Madame Djina Kherson. The latter had recently emigrated from Russia via Berlin and thanks to Monsieur Legris was now living in Rue des Dunes, near Buttes-Chaumont.

March had been taken up with preliminary drawings. Iris could talk of nothing else, to the point where Monsieur Mori had nicknamed her ‘Mona Lisa’. And then one day a painter friend of Mademoiselle Tasha’s, the conceited Maurice Laumier whom Monsieur Legris had never liked, had seen one of her sketches on an easel. He had praised her artistic progress and the model’s beauty. Who was she? Mademoiselle Tasha replied that she was Victor Legris’s half-sister. Maurice Laumier had used the age-old method of the lightning strike – his main weapon surprise, his lure throwing himself on his quarry’s mercy. He had approached her hat in hand.

‘Mademoiselle, I don’t usually accost young ladies in the street, but when I saw you coming out of my fellow artist Tasha Kherson’s house I couldn’t stop myself. You see, I’ve been commissioned to paint an exotic portrait of the Virgin Mary to exhibit at this year’s Salon, and when I saw those extraordinary eyes, that flawless complexion, your adorable face, I…’

Later on, in floods of tears, Iris had given her father, brother and fiancé a blow-by-blow account of the repulsive tale. She’d portrayed herself as a poor innocent girl, ambushed outside Tasha and Victor’s home by a man whose name she already knew. Why should she have mistrusted this attractive charmer in search of a model with Asian features?

At this point in the story, Joseph had had little difficulty imagining the young girl succumbing to the virility of the handsome dauber; he could understand why she would prefer this Don Juan to a hunchback like him; he could understand how from then on she’d woven her web of lies in order to be able to carry on her twice-weekly meetings with that libertine from Rue Girardon. Yes, he understood – he was a writer, after all – but he could not forgive!

The ‘poor ingénue’ had then explained to Djina Kherson that she must give up her watercolour classes and had begged her not to tell anybody. She wanted to surprise her fiancé. She’d had no difficulty believing her own lies: she would buy Maurice Laumier’s portrait as well as Tasha’s and make a gift of them to Joseph as a mark of her undying love!

Joseph did not want to know what had really taken place in the notorious womaniser’s studio. According to Iris, after four or five sessions the painter had stolen a kiss, and two or three weeks later he’d taken liberties that had earned him a slap. Finally, towards the middle of May, when she had confused her dates and turned up at Laumier’s studio on the wrong day, he had appeared at the door in shirt-tails and declared his love for her. At that very moment, the door separating the studio and the bedroom had opened to reveal a totally naked woman. The shrew had bombarded Iris with insults, which she was too polite to repeat, unless she washed out her mouth with soap and water afterwards.

She had confessed everything to Joseph and begged his forgiveness. She’d been so filled with remorse that even Euphrosine Pignot, outraged by her son’s heartlessness, had leapt to her defence, growling, ‘Men! Scoundrels the lot of them!’

Joseph had been unbending. He announced that he was postponing their wedding date, set for the end of July, indefinitely. For the past six weeks, Iris, in a state of despair, had shut herself away on the first floor; Kenji was giving his assistant the cold shoulder and Victor was playing go-between. As for the guilty party, when questioned by Mademoiselle Tasha he had cynically summed up events in a mocking voice.

‘What do you expect, my dear? She’s a very pretty girl; what man wouldn’t want to have his way with her? A shame she showed up unexpectedly and Mimi laid into her!’

Blanche de Cambrésis pursed her lips and took her leave of Victor Legris after purchasing a novel she had delightedly unearthed by Arsène Houssaye. Joseph waited until she had left before emerging from his hiding place at the very moment that Kenji Mori descended the stairs. The two men pretended not to notice one another.

‘I have an appointment with Dr Reynaud,’ Kenji announced glumly.

He surreptitiously touched the bust of Molière on the mantelpiece above the hearth for luck, and fired a question at Victor.

‘Tell me honestly, Victor, do you think I’m shrinking?’

‘We’re all subject to the laws of gravity. What’s the matter with you?’

‘It’s my back.’

Oblivious to Joseph’s presence, they began discussing their health before moving on to ‘poor Iris’s’ state of mind. All that was missing was the tea and muffins!

‘Aren’t you lunching here?’ Victor asked. ‘Euphrosine has made celery and turnip croquettes.’

‘No thank you, really,’ said Kenji. ‘I’ll see you this evening – wish me luck.’

‘Women! They’re all alike,’ grumbled Joseph. ‘Look at Monsieur Mori, wasting away because that cancan dancer Fifi Bas-Rhin went off to St Petersburg with her Russky archduke!’

‘Don’t you believe it, Jojo. I suspect he prefers his meat to the vegetarian regime imposed by my sister and has gone off to Foyot’s to enjoy escalope Milanese or tournedos in pepper sauce.’

Victor’s envious expression betrayed a strong urge to do the same as his adoptive father. However, at the thought of Madame Pignot’s wrath, he abandoned the idea.

Frédéric Daglan walked with his hands in his pockets and a case slung over his shoulder along the fortifications separating Paris from its suburbs. The outlying boulevards bordered by huts and wooden shacks spread out across the parched grass at the foot of the fortifications.
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The sky above Saint-Ouen was black with the smoke billowing over from the factories. Frédéric Daglan walked through the tollgate at Clignancourt. He always began his rounds at Anchise Giacometti’s bistro. Anchise was a fellow countryman who had given him a helping hand the day he had arrived at Gare de Lyon, penniless, jobless and with no prospects.

Frédéric was forty-three. He had warm memories of his father, Enrico Leopardi – a Garibaldian killed at the battle of Aspromonte in 1862. His widowed mother had emigrated to Marseilles, confident of a better future. She had sweated fourteen hours a day at an India rubber and gutta-percha factory on Avenue du Prado and had gone without in order to send Federico to school. The boy’s schoolteacher, Monsieur Daglan, was a good man, and had taught him reading, writing and arithmetic.

When his mother died of a heart attack, Federico Leopardi bought a train ticket to Paris, where he became Frédéric Daglan. He was just fifteen.

He was a rebel and a loner, full of care for the exploited and downtrodden, for the nobodies of the world. His job as a calligrapher served as a cover for his so-called criminal activities. He worked alone, undercover, occasionally soliciting the help of Theo, the nephew of Brigadier Clément, the park keeper. He never stole more than he needed to help his friends and to enjoy life and love. His philosophy was simple:

‘Faced with the sad fact that life is a vale of tears, I have chosen to prey on the rich rather than lose my self-respect begging at their table. Society is a jungle where the strong devour the weak and the moral of the story is that we all end up six feet under. That’s what I call liberty, equality and fraternity. I do nobody any harm, I simply cream off a tiny surplus. Besides, rich or poor, we can’t take it with us, not even what might fit through the eye of a needle.’

Only he was still very much alive, and in it up to his neck. The papers in the brown briefcase had left him in no doubt: he must go undercover and sort things out.

Le Piccolo run by Anchise Giacometti stood on the edge of the working area. It resembled a village inn with its blue-painted bar, checked tablecloths and rustic sideboard. Anchise Giacometti, a silent patriarch with a flowing moustache, presided over the bar while his wife, a tiny Calabrian woman as dark as an olive, ran the kitchen. At lunchtime, the restaurant filled up with market gardeners and employees from the toll office.

Frédéric Daglan greeted Anchise and sat down in the corner at an unlaid table. The landlord brought him a stack of oblong cards together with the lunch menu. Frédéric opened his calligraphy case, took out his bottles of ink, his pens and nibs and went to work. He carefully wrote out the names of the dishes on each card, separating them with an arabesque. He used fine script for the desserts and bold characters for the beef and cabbage stew. Anchise poured him out a tumbler of wine and went back to polishing his glasses.