In the Shadows of Paris (24 page)

 

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.'

They filed down a corridor leading to a kitchen where a small swarthy woman wrapped in an enormous gathered apron was cooking delicious-smelling dishes seasoned with garlic and peppers.

‘Magali, where's Maman?'

‘I think she's in the sitting room.'

Joseph, whose nasal passages had enjoyed a brief respite, was overcome by a new fit of sneezing, which prevented him from pointing out to Victor that the Roman candles he'd found in Pierre Andrésy's shop could have been made out of defective playing cards.

Cyprien Plagnol's mother proved to be his spitting image, a stout brunette in a royal-blue tea-gown, whom he addressed considerately.

‘Maman dearest, our callers are keen to find out about a young man employed at the printing works before we bought the lease.'

‘Heavens! Look at the state of you, Cyprien! You're covered in dirt! Sit down, gentlemen,' she ordered, crumpling elephant-like into a wing chair.

‘You'll have a glass of anisette,' she proposed. ‘Anyone would think we were in Marseilles with this heat.'

Victor declined the offer.

‘And what about the tow-haired young chap?'

‘I don't mind if I do,' Joseph replied, ignoring Victor's disapproving look.

‘Maman dearest, where have you put the old register with the moleskin cover?'

‘At the back of the desk with all the other papers from the notary. How does he manage to get his clothes so filthy? I realise we're all stewing in this hot weather, but I'm no washerwoman! Well, young man, do you like it?'

Joseph sipped at his anisette. The alcohol was taking effect. His vision was obscured by a purple haze and the furniture was beginning to sway. He thought he'd better put down his glass before the dresser turned into a rhinoceros. Cyprien Plagnol came back carrying the register and handed it to Victor.

‘You're in luck, this should have been thrown away, but we kept it thinking it might come in handy; there are still a hundred or so blank pages left.'

‘Who owned the printing works?' asked Victor.

‘The original owner had recently sold the lease to a Monsieur Martin, and he was the one we dealt with when we bought it in September 1871,' Madame Plagnol recollected.

‘Monsieur Martin? Damn!' Victor cursed, opening the cover. He read:

A good book is the precious lifeblood of a master spirit

(Milton)

YEARS
1869–1870

Employees

He turned the page.

January 1870
Bruno	Typographer
Clouange	Binder
Grandjean	Apprentice engraver
Grinchard	Layout man
Leglantier	Proofreader
Meunier	Engraver
Mathieu	Stereotyper
Tardieu	Typesetter
Theneuil	Master Printer

Victor held his breath; one of the keys to this mystery was hidden in these names.

The next few pages gave details of the various jobs done by the printer's. The same names appeared at the beginning of each month until September 1870, when there were four missing: Bruno, Clouange, Meunier and Tardieu – no doubt called up to fight for their country. The printing works continued operating with a reduced staff. In October, Grinchard and Mathieu's names had also disappeared. Only Grandjean, Leglantier and Theneuil remained.

‘Good grief, Boss, do you see, Grandjean, Leglantier and Theneuil all worked together!'

The hubbub on Rue de Buci roused them from the apathy their astonishing discovery had plunged them into. Victor finally managed to swallow the lump in his throat.

‘Boss, we're getting close, I can feel it! We can prove that the three men were connected. They were the only ones left up to the siege of Paris in December. Grandjean and Leglantier are dead, and Paul Theneuil has vanished into thin air…Well, what's the matter?'

Victor was staring open-mouthed at a florist's display on the other side of the street. The words of a ditty flashed through his mind…s
he loves me, she loves me not…
Tasha's hat! Tasha, their first meeting, her auburn hair which she wore in a bun and the little hat decorated with daisies.

He grabbed Joseph's wrist.

‘Quickly, we must go back to Passage des Thermopyles.'

‘Why?'

‘I have a hunch.'

 

Marthe Theneuil had left the printing works to attend to her haberdashery. She was upset when Victor and Joseph burst in unexpectedly and regretted having confided details about her personal life to them. Victor's excitement caught her unprepared.

‘Madame Theneuil, was the flower your husband signed his love letters with a daisy?'

‘What a nerve, what right have you…'

‘It is of the utmost importance.'

‘Yes. I hate the name my parents gave me. I wished I'd been named after a flower, so Paul used to call me Daisy.'

‘Did you ever give him a watch?'

She looked at him incredulously.

‘How did you know? Oh dear God! Something awful has happened!'

Joseph lied with ease.

‘We don't know, Madame; on the contrary this may well be an encouraging sign.'

‘Paul likes to be punctual,' she murmured. ‘A few years ago I bought him a fob watch.'

‘Did you have it inscribed?'

‘Yes. Oh, I beg you, tell me the truth, I want to know…He's dead, isn't he?'

‘No, Madame. What was the inscription?'

‘
To Paul from his Marthe
in the middle of a daisy.'

‘Thank you, Madame. Rest assured, you will soon receive word,' Victor said as he hurried outside.

‘Are you going to tell me what this is all about?' Joseph growled once they were out of earshot of the haberdashery.

‘The watch that was found next to Pierre Andrésy's corpse, the one Inspector Lecacheur asked me and Monsieur Mori to identify, belongs to Paul Theneuil!
To P—from his—e
! To Paul, not to Pierre! To Paul from his Marthe, do you see?'

‘So that means—'

Joseph was unable to finish his sentence. In front of the Square de Montrouge a newspaper vendor cried out, ‘Read all about it in
Le Passe-partout
! Special edition! Police inspector murdered in his own bed!'

Printed in bold capitals on the front page of the daily paper was the name Gustave Corcol.

T
HEY
were both keen to get to the newspaper first. Exasperated, Victor pushed Joseph over to a bench and sat down next to him beneath the crook of a bronze peasant girl from the Auvergne.

‘I'll read aloud and that way we'll avoid tearing it:

‘Boss! The leopard!'

‘There's more, Joseph:

‘I'll spare you the exclusive interview with Inspector Lecacheur,' Victor concluded, folding up the newspaper.

‘The leopard and Sacrovir are one and the same!' exclaimed Joseph. ‘You were right not to trust Daglan – he's the culprit.'

Victor flicked through a notebook he'd taken from his pocket.

‘You yourself told me that the Gallic chieftain distinguished himself at Autun. That's where Mariette Trinquet said her Sacrovir hailed from. Daglan is Italian.'

‘So he says. Oh, he's a cunning devil! He plays the victim but he's pulling the strings.'

‘It doesn't make sense, Joseph. He wasn't obliged to contact me. And what is Paul Theneuil's part in all this? What was his half-melted watch doing at Pierre Andrésy's?'

‘Daglan might have pinched it after bumping him off. Then when he set fire to the bookbinder's shop he dropped it by accident.'

‘Why would Daglan set fire to Andrésy's shop?'

‘To steal the Persian manuscript.'

Victor stood up, frowning, and began circling the statue.

‘It doesn't hang together. You're forgetting the Ambrex shares.'

‘I'm damn well not forgetting them! This is how I see the sequence of events. Our four accomplices set up their fraudulent scheme. Each man has a speciality: Daglan steals the cigar holders; Grandjean, the painter, comes up with an eye-catching design for the shares which will attract the buyers; Theneuil prints them; and Leglantier, the smooth talker with the social contacts, sells them.'

‘And what about Corcol?'

‘He's the man in charge. They chose him because they knew he was crooked. A
flic
in their pocket is an asset. But before they can start they need money. Corcol has an idea, he knows something about the value of books, and he knows that Pierre Andrésy restores rare works which can easily be sold to unscrupulous book dealers. He steals the manuscript and now they're ready to bring the cigar holders and the shares into play. Leglantier extorts a fortune out of the mugs who buy the shares. Only they haven't taken Daglan into account. He wants to keep the spoils for himself. He kills Theneuil, sets fire to Andrésy's shop where he drops the famous watch then gets rid of Grandjean and Leglantier and, thanks to the messages implicating the leopard, pretends he's the victim of a conspiracy in order to convince you of his innocence. There, don't you like my little story?'

‘What about Corcol? What does your famous intuition tell you about that?'

‘Daglan gets rid of him, no more witnesses.'

‘Bravo, Joseph, I applaud you with both hands!'

‘Well, I'm only putting forward theories. Isn't life a series of inexplicable events?' Very nice, Joseph old chap, a perfect epilogue for
Thule's Golden Chalice
. ‘What are your objections, Boss?'

‘It's the idea of the money which bothers me. What did they need it for? They had no accomplices to pay off because, as you so brilliantly pointed out, they each had their own speciality. Besides, do you think Daglan and Grandjean would have been foolish enough to sign their names on the Ambrex shares as directors? And how do you know Theneuil is dead?'

‘The watch, you yourself…'

‘The watch may be a red herring. It wouldn't be the first time a criminal left a false clue.'

‘All right, what if Theneuil is still alive and he and Daglan are in this together?' Joseph suggested.

‘Let's not get carried away. We must…'

Victor stood aside to make way for two stout ladies carrying folding stools, who installed themselves a few yards further on.

‘We must keep in mind two riddles, which aren't necessarily related. One surrounds Pierre Andrésy and the other the Ambrex shares affair, which I refuse to believe he was mixed up in.'

‘Not wishing to contradict you, Boss, your two mysteries have one thing in common: Gustave Corcol,' said Joseph, drawing level with Victor.

Irritated by a flock of pigeons gathered round the two stout ladies' feet, they turned off towards the town hall.

‘I've another idea, Boss. Corcol dreams up the shares swindle and decides to abscond with the proceeds. He murders Theneuil then publishes the death notice in order to point the finger at Daglan. He kills Andrésy, steals the Persian manuscript, and sets the shop on fire after planting Paul Theneuil's watch as evidence. Then he eliminates Grandjean and Leglantier and is planning to get rid of Daglan when Daglan strikes first. Are you listening to me, Boss?'

‘Yes…yes…Wait a minute! That song…'

‘What song?'

They walked along Avenue du Maine where a cluster of cabs was attempting to overtake the lumbering trams. Victor suddenly grabbed Joseph's arm.

‘The month of May! The Commune! Josette Fatou told you she'd heard Grandjean's murderer singing “The Cherry Season”. Well, the song's author dedicated it to a woman called Louise, a stretcher-bearer from Rue de la Fontaine-au-Roi, on Sunday 28 May 1871.'
⁶⁶

‘I'm amazed by the things you know!'

‘Be quiet a moment! Corcol assured me that Pierre Andrésy's brother was dead…But what if he's still alive? What if he is Sacrovir? Or maybe it's Daglan. He must have been about twenty then.'

‘Could it be Theneuil, Boss? His wife made a point of saying how youthful he looked. We have his photograph – all we have to do is show it to Mariette Trinquet and—'

‘If you weren't a man, Joseph, I'd kiss you! Hurry over to Rue Guisarde and find out. I'll go back to Rue Fontaine and telephone our friend Raoul Pérot.'

Josette Fatou walked back to her house, hugging the walls, clutching the bag of potatoes she'd gone to buy after parking her cart. These past few days, her anxiety had swelled up inside her like a balloon until she felt she was suffocating. Powerless to resist the pressure, she waited meekly for the worst to happen.

She did not have to wait long.

Just as she reached the gate, a gloved hand closed round her wrist and a voice breathed, ‘Make up a bundle of clothes and follow me, quickly!'

The balloon burst, deflated in one go. What was the point of struggling? He would find her wherever she went. She might as well give in.

‘Why?' she had the strength to ask.

‘Because it's the only solution. I'll stay here. Hurry.'

‘Where are we going?'

For a moment she felt as if it wasn't she who had spoken.

She stared up at him, open-mouthed. His words had frightened her and yet she could scarcely feel his presence.

She walked cautiously down the corridor, the ground swaying beneath her feet. She felt terribly afraid and yet strangely removed.

As she climbed the stairs, she understood that death had been moving towards her since the day she was born. Sometimes slowly, sometimes fast, always unpredictable. It was up to each of us to make friends with death. And if hers took on the appearance of desire would that not give it a certain beauty? Weren't love and death related?
Love.
She wondered why he'd behaved so tenderly towards her after he broke into her lodgings. In her semi-conscious state she had yielded not to the demands of the stranger, but to an instinct deep in her own body whose impulses she had always suppressed. She was sure of one thing: this man provided the answer to all her questions. Very well, she would go with him, and if death conquered love then so be it. She had waited years for this meeting, for this awakening of her senses, cursing men and dreaming of a gentle lover. What a shame that her Prince Charming should also turn out to be her killer.

Wrapped in his greatcoat, his hat pulled down over his brow, Frédéric Daglan stared into the darkness of the doorway. There was a scrunch of gravel; a harridan in clogs crossed the courtyard. A chicken clucked and a dog chained beside a hut whined expectantly.

‘Shut your trap!' the harridan cried as she walked away, but not before shooting a malevolent glance at the man standing under the lamppost.

Suddenly, Frédéric Daglan began to feel flustered. His plan was an absurd fantasy; the flower girl would barricade herself in her apartment and rouse the neighbours. He'd been afraid she might cry out and put up a struggle. He'd been prepared to use all his powers of persuasion to convince her to go with him. Her submissiveness had thrown him – she was like a person who suffered from vertigo and was fatally attracted to heights. Had it been a ruse? Had she already escaped through a back door? No, she was back, carrying a carpet bag on her arm. She'd combed her hair and changed into a cheap dress that showed off her figure.

He remembered her small hard breasts cupped in his hand the night she'd fainted in fright when she saw him. He had seldom desired a woman so intensely. But he was suspicious of the fact that she'd gone along with his decision so easily. He must tread carefully.

He led her in silence to Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine, where a cab was waiting beside the pavement. Josette drank in the sunny façades of the buildings, forcing herself to hold on to the image before the cab door clicked shut.

 

A man slipped nervously into the bookshop. Kenji, who was busy selling an illustrated edition of
Orlando Furioso
⁶⁷
in three volumes, noticed the visitor's unassuming manner out of the corner of his eye.

‘How may I help you?'

‘Are you Monsieur Legris's associate? We've met before. I'm a watchmaker on Rue Monsieur-le-Prince. I'm here on a rather delicate matter. About ten days ago, I entrusted Monsieur Legris with a fob watch belonging to Monsieur Andrésy. He was to give it to you. Only, this morning a man claiming to be his cousin came in asking for it. Without thinking, I told him I no longer had it. I hope I haven't made a mistake.'

How typical of Victor to be so secretive, thought Kenji.

‘No matter,' he replied, ‘I'll bring you the watch as soon as we close for lunch. Just now I'm alone and…'

He gestured discreetly towards a customer at the back of the shop.

‘Oh, there's no hurry. The cousin said he'd return late afternoon.'

‘I believe I've met this cousin,' Kenji went on, ‘a tall, slender young man with a beard. Somewhat eccentric.'

‘It's difficult to say exactly,' replied the watchmaker. ‘He was bundled up in a greatcoat. Can you imagine, in this heat! He wore a hat pulled down over his eyes, dark glasses and a beard à la Victor Hugo…A real eccentric. Well, I must be going, until later, then, and my apologies for any inconvenience.'

Kenji saw the watchmaker out. They were saying goodbye when the man snapped his fingers.

‘I've just remembered something. While he was browsing through various trinkets I noticed a long scar on the palm of his left hand, does that mean anything to you?'

‘No.'

Puzzled, Kenji walked upstairs to his apartment.

‘Iris, dear, are you busy? I have to go out, and those rogues Victor and Joseph are playing truant. Could you…Would you…'

‘Play shopkeeper? Yes, Papa. Honestly, for somebody who hasn't much interest in books, I'm practically a prisoner in a reading room!'

 

‘My omnibus is rather good, don't you think, Kochka?'