In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (32 page)

‘Why, Pierre, why?’

Pierre Andrésy smiled feebly. He managed to speak with great difficulty.

‘Fourastié…He knows why…Fourastié, Rue Baillet…Kenji…Is every man’s fate predetermined?’

‘I believe that we are the authors of our own lives. We write the play, and the performance goes on until the end.’

Chapter Fourteen

Friday 28 July

‘Y
OU
have to be philosophical in life and not worry about things; one day you come within an inch of disaster, the next everything is fine. You’re right, Papa, you’re right,’ Joseph said to himself, crossing Pont Neuf at a brisk pace.

Admittedly, nothing had come of his second visit to Mariette Trinquet, since she hadn’t identified Paul Theneuil as the famous Sacrovir, and so he’d missed his big chance to crack the case. But when, in the early evening, Monsieur Legris had telephoned to inform him of the tragedy, and had gone on to say that both he and Monsieur Mori were counting on the unfailing collaboration of their assistant, he’d felt reassured.

It had been getting on for midnight when Victor, after finally being released by the police, had turned up at Rue Visconti, much to Euphrosine’s annoyance, looking peaky, his eyes hollow. Joseph had taken him off to his study.

‘Monsieur Mori and I have had a most unpleasant time, Joseph. Inspector Lecacheur grilled us for hours. We pretended we knew nothing and were simply looking for the missing Persian manuscript. We didn’t mention the watch.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘No. And I’m sure he isn’t finished with us yet.’

‘Does he know about the leopard?’

‘The leopard? What leopard? Do you know anything about a leopard?’

‘No, Boss, I avoid all contact with felines. Is Mademoiselle Tasha feeling any better?’

‘It’s severely tried her nerves, but she’s recovering from the ordeal. I’m afraid there’ll be a backlash when I go home.’

‘Who are you more afraid of, Mademoiselle Tasha or Inspector Lecacheur? Only joking, Boss, only joking. What was that you said on the telephone about my unfailing collaboration?’

‘Before he died, Pierre Andrésy whispered: “Fourastié…he knows why…Fourastié, Rue Baillet…” He’s a cobbler, he…’

‘Has a shop in Rue Baillet, near the Louvre,’ Joseph cut in, polishing his nails on his jacket lapel.

‘How the devil…?’

‘Mariette Trinquet told us his name, Boss. You’ve got a memory like a sieve.’

‘Stop showing off, Joseph, and listen. Kenji has been doing his own investigating. Fourastié is the one who sold the Persian manuscript to the bookseller, Adolphe Esquirol. Tomorrow morning…’

Victor looked at his watch then corrected himself.

‘This morning, open the shop and ask Iris to stand in for you…’

‘She won’t like it.’

‘She’s the future wife of a bookseller, isn’t she?’

Joseph turned pink with pleasure.

‘Go straight to Rue Baillet. I don’t need to draw you a map, do I?’

‘No, Boss. I leave the Elzévir bookshop with a package under my arm, a delivery. l shake off Lecacheur’s henchmen and head for Rue Baillet. Then what?’

‘Fourastié holds the key to this affair. I’m counting on you to get it out of him. You’re good at that.’

‘What about you?’

‘I’m going home to get some sleep. Monsieur Mori and I have been summoned back to the police station.’

Joseph turned off Rue de l’Arbre-Sec into Rue Baillet. He was sweating. The leather notebook Iris had given him the year before was sticking to the lining of his jacket pocket. He reached the cobbler’s. There was a notice nailed to the shop front:

We repair every type of shoe and boot

A sign hanging on the doorknob said:

Temporarily closed

Joseph knocked several times. When there was no reply, he stepped back, looked up at the building and, at the risk of rousing the whole neighbourhood, yelled, ‘Fourastié!…Fourastié!…Fourastié!…Come down. Fourastié! Pierre sent me. I’m his cousin from Autun!’

The sun was dazzling and he lifted his hand to shield his eyes. On the second floor a curtain twitched.

Joseph flashed his most charming smile at the beautiful brunette who was standing in the doorway to her tobacconist’s kiosk, drawn by his cries.

‘Well,’ she exclaimed, ‘what a way to behave! I thought he’d gone to Belval-sous-Châtillon to see his daughter. Although it seemed a bit strange him leaving his birds…’

A face appeared behind the glass in the door. Joseph pressed his mouth to the keyhole.

‘Monsieur Fourastié, my name’s Joseph Pignot, I’m an associate of Kenji Mori, the bookseller. He came here himself, but the shop was closed. Monsieur Mori is a friend of Pierre Andrésy’s.’

‘What do you want from me?’ asked a steely voice.

‘I’ve come to tell you that he killed himself…I must speak to you. Please, it’s important!’

‘Important for whom?’

‘For both of us.’

Fourastié unlocked the door and opened it a crack.

‘Come in, quickly.’

Fourastié was a plump man with a drooping moustache, grey hair and broken veins on his cheeks. Joseph avoided looking into his cross-eyes. The cobbler led him through the shop into a workshop crammed with shoes. He moved slowly, without a sound. Joseph noticed a rush of warm air, the pungent smell of the place and the awful din. Birdseed was flying everywhere. Along the partition wall was an aviary divided into tiny cages where pale-yellow canaries, sparrows, hummingbirds, a parrot, Japanese warblers and whistling blackbirds were hopping around and flapping their wings. Fourastié pointed to a stool.

‘Meet my family. Take a seat. Would you like a drink?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Then I’ll drink alone.’

Fourastié poured himself a glass of red wine, drained it in one gulp then pulled a chair out from the other side of a greasy table.

‘So, Monsieur Mori killed himself?’

‘No. Pierre Andrésy.’

Fourastié turned pale. His hand shook as he reached into a drawer and took out a folded letter. He stared at it in silence.

‘When did it happen?’ he asked.

‘Early yesterday evening.’

‘Poor Pierre!’

Joseph felt a mixture of anger and exasperation.

‘Your poor Pierre nearly killed my boss and his fiancée! He murdered four men!’

‘I know. It’s a terrible business, Monsieur, a terrible business. I’d do better to keep my mouth shut.’

Joseph tried to find the right thing to say.

‘I…Believe me, Monsieur Fourastié…The last thing I want is to cause you any problems. The police will never know about this conversation…Only, my bosses insisted that I take notes.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ murmured Fourastié, handing him the letter. ‘This is addressed to Monsieur Mori, it explains everything.’

‘I want to hear the story from your own lips.’

‘Can’t you leave me alone? Let the dead bury the dead.’

‘Listen, Monsieur Fourastié, I was very fond of Pierre Andrésy. I want to know the truth.’

‘You’re tough, aren’t you? Go on, be my guest. Turn the place upside down – maybe you’ll find the truth hiding under the mattress! Oh, and assuming there’s a “hereafter” I’m sure Pierre would heartily approve; he didn’t leave any unfinished business.’

More like he started a funeral business! Joseph thought, catching the beady eye of a red-crested cockatoo gently trying to soothe its yearning for a distant Malaysia as it swung on its perch.

Fourastié cleared his throat. ‘Take notes if you like. I first saw Pierre again two years ago, in 1891, on the banks of the Seine. I was fishing for bleak, it’s my hobby. He was rifling through the booksellers’ boxes for rare bindings. We hadn’t seen each other for twenty years. We reminisced about our youth, about the war. He’d refused to take part in the slaughter and had escaped to England. After the surrender, I joined the Commune. I was arrested on 25 May in Rue de Tournon. A captain interrogated me, and the provost marshal, without glancing up from his papers, gave the order: “Take him to the queue.” In less than five minutes I was sentenced to be shot. I ended up in a tiny courtyard outside the Senate building. It was full of people – men, women and children – surrounded by policemen and soldiers in red uniforms…No, no, I can’t go on, it’s too much!’

He drained the last drops of his wine and studied Joseph’s sympathetic expression.

‘The police know nothing about you, Monsieur Fourastié, you have my word of honour.’

‘If you only knew how little I care! We could hear the crackle of rifles. I knew I was going to die, that none of us would come out alive. I’d almost resigned myself when I noticed a fellow with a tricolour armband. I knew him. We lived on the same street. He was a plain-clothes policeman…’

As he spoke, Fourastié turned towards a photograph standing on a shelf next to a conch shell.

‘My daughter – she’s all I’ve got left in the world. She’s married, lives in Marne.’

‘She’s lovely. Now please get to the point. I want to know about Pierre Andrésy.’

‘This is important for you to know, Monsieur. The fellow with the armband called out: “You, come with me!” I followed him. As I passed close to a queue of condemned men and women, I recognised Pierre’s wife, his fourteen-year-old kid and his younger brother, Sacrovir. I turned round. I thought of my little girl, all alone at home…’

‘Sacrovir?’

‘That was Pierre’s brother Mathieu’s nickname. He was a member of a workers’ group modelled on the Carbonari.
⁶⁹
He’d become involved through a friend. Pierre was violently opposed to it. He said that type of movement could only spell trouble, especially when you ran a printing works. He and his brother fell out and Mathieu stormed out of the house just as war was being declared and went to live in Rue Guisarde.’

‘A printing works? In Rue Mazarine? Was Pierre Andrésy the owner?’

‘Yes. It was a thriving business. When he left for England, his wife took over.’

‘Was Mathieu’s friend’s name Frédéric Daglan?’

‘I don’t know…Pierre said he was an idler, a good-for-nothing, an anarchist of sorts who believed in stealing back from society – in short a thief.’

‘The leopard!’

Fourastié looked surprised. For a few seconds he remained motionless, succumbing to the effects of the alcohol.

‘The
flic
took me aside, rubbed his finger and thumb together to mean money, and said, laughing: “As you’re a neighbour we’re going to make a deal. If you can pay I’ll arrange for you to be sent to Versailles; hard labour is always better than the grim reaper.”

‘And the name of this
flic
?’

‘That’s my business,’ Fourastié cut in suddenly, his chin quivering as he bit his lip.

‘Don’t upset yourself, Monsieur Fourastié, don’t upset yourself like that…Come on, you can tell me!’

Choked with emotion, Fourastié remained silent, but he shook his head. Joseph persevered.

‘Was it Gustave Corcol?…He’s dead. He was found murdered the day before yesterday.’

Fourastié tried to smile, but only managed a whimper.

‘Yes, Gustave Corcol, nicknamed the Spaniel, a real swine! I can’t help it, when I remember…It’ll pass, it’ll pass.’

His voice grew calmer.

‘Corcol ruled over the Latin Quarter. When the Versailles Army besieged Paris, his zeal was second to none. He escorted the officers who carried out the raids. They’d surround a whole block of houses and search every building from top to bottom. The smallest incriminating object and everybody went before the provost marshal. After a summary ruling, suspects who weren’t proven to have taken part in the Commune were sent to Versailles, while the rest were thrown into the cellars of the Senate to rot until the cellars were full. And then they made space…’

‘Made space?’

‘They shot people in batches, in the Luxembourg Gardens, by the pond…It was a miracle that I escaped with my life. I could pay. Corcol saved my skin in return for money. During the raids, he lined his pockets thanks to the denunciations. You can’t imagine the number of anonymous letters, sackloads. Even the military authorities were shocked by such baseness, and they weren’t exactly driven by compassion. People denounced their neighbours, their bosses, their creditors, their rivals in love. Ah, Monsieur, weakness is universal, but this!’

‘Not so fast, Monsieur Fourastié,’ begged Joseph, sticking out his tongue as he scribbled.

‘Imagine what a shock it was to see Andrésy again twenty years after this tragedy. I thought he was dead. He told me he’d lost everyone he loved. Neighbours had described to him how during the siege his family had sought refuge with a cousin near the Sorbonne. The building had been reduced to a pile of rubble. Do you know, Monsieur, nearly fifteen thousand shells fell on Paris?’

‘My mother and I lived in a cellar while my father was fighting at Buzenval. I was under the impression that Pierre Andrésy returned to France before the Prussians surrounded Paris.’

‘I’ve no idea. In any event, the printing works had changed hands…Are you sure you’re not thirsty? I am.’

Fourastié stood up, opened a second bottle, poured himself a drink and paced up and down the workshop holding his glass.

‘Pierre was convinced that his family had perished during the shelling. I thought I was doing the right thing telling him the truth, so I described what I’d seen, his family being shot, the deportations, the humiliations. I thought it would help him to get over it. What I should have done was confess my own cowardice. What a fool! If only I’d known…I gave him the name of their executioner: Gustave Corcol. He stood before me, dazed, like a man driven to distraction, without speaking, and then he put his head on his arm and sobbed. He blamed himself for having abandoned his family!’

‘Is that what sparked his desire for revenge?’

Fourastié sat down again, wearily pushing the glass and bottle to one side so that he could lean his elbows on the table. Then he hid his face in his hands. Long minutes went by during which he relived his disappointed hopes, his failed attempts at happiness. Suddenly, he looked up at Joseph, with an expression of utter despair.