In the Shadows of Paris (26 page)

‘Vengeance is worse than a burn for which there is no salve. Andrésy went away with a crazed look in his eyes – like an animal going to the slaughter. I heard nothing more from him until late summer '92. One day, he asked me to put him up. He confided his plan to me, and I swore to keep silent because I felt responsible.'

Fourastié stared at the bottle, his eyes red, his face tense.

‘Pierre had finally traced Corcol to La Chapelle police station. He'd studied his habits, found out where he ate, where he lived, which bars he went to. He began going to his local bar and gradually the two men became friendly. He made up a story about a brother who was in Hôpital Lariboisière dying from a chest wound he'd received in May 1871 while routing a group of National Guardsmen who were manning the barricade in Rue de Rennes. He showed him a scar on his hand and told him it was a war wound he'd got at Reichshoffen. What a joke! He'd cut himself by accident once on a trimming guillotine. He didn't bother to conceal his name, his address or his profession. There was no way Corcol would remember a family arrested and shot in 1871. Pierre sang the praises of Thiers and the repression, harshly criticising the Communards. Corcol was completely taken in.'

‘I can understand why he might want to punish the
flic
, but the others?'

‘During their conversations at the bar, Corcol confessed that although he detested the Communards, he despised their informers even more. There were three in particular who worked at a printing shop in Rue Mazarine. They were responsible for the arrest of at least thirty people, including their boss's family. He didn't know their names, but Pierre worked out who they were by a process of elimination.'

‘Grandjean, Leglantier, Theneuil and Daglan. The swine!' Joseph cried.

‘Daglan? No, Monsieur, there were only three. I don't know who Daglan is.'

‘But why did they denounce them?'

‘Self-interest. Once the family had been wiped out, they obtained the deeds to the printing works from the authorities. They immediately sold it and shared the proceeds and everyone went their own way.'

For a while now, Fourastié had been eyeing up the bottle.

‘Oh, to hell with abstinence!'

He downed two glasses one after the other.

‘How did Pierre Andrésy manage to get into Théâtre de l'Échiquier?'

‘He mingled with the joiners. He knocked Leglantier unconscious, opened the gas tap, typed the message then raised the alarm…When Monsieur Mori came here, Pierre started worrying. He…Oh, it's my fault, it's all my fault…'

He slumped in his seat then resumed his account in a slurred voice, his lips moist, his eyes unfocused.

‘They sent me to the penal colony in New Caledonia. Nine years without my little girl. That's where I developed my love of birds and learnt to be a cobbler…The past always catches up with you in the end…'

All of a sudden, Fourastié sat up straight.

‘That's enough, lad. I've given you Pierre's letter, now push off – I need to be alone.'

 

His mind brimming with questions, Joseph wandered down the quiet avenues of Jardin des Tuileries. He sat on a bench. Around him were well-dressed couples, smiling children, goats harnessed to carts, well-tended lawns, a peaceful existence. Far removed from war, massacres, shattered lives. Joseph felt thirsty. He pulled the letter addressed to Kenji out of his pocket…

Dusk was already casting shadows into the study at Rue Visconti where Joseph was busy imparting what he'd learnt from Fourastié, with no regard for the purplish shadows under Victor's eyes or Kenji's yawns.

‘…There were three informers: the master printer, Paul Theneuil; the apprentice engraver, Léopold Grandjean; and the proofreader, Edmond Leglantier – a talentless rhymester who boasted of having been applauded by the Empress Eugénie. It took Pierre Andrésy time to find them after twenty years. Meanwhile, Corcol had confided in him his need for money; Andrésy lent him small amounts on several occasions and put to him an idea for the perfect swindle: selling shares in a fictitious company making synthetic amber that looked like the real thing. Corcol swallowed it hook, line and sinker. All he had to do was to produce some authentic-looking shares. Corcol would take charge of the operation. Andrésy provided him with the addresses of his three ex-employees. The enamellist came up with the design, the printer printed them, and the theatre manager sold the worthless pieces of paper. Naturally each man received a substantial payment. Monsieur Andrésy explains it all in his letter. You may congratulate me, Monsieur Legris, on the theory I put forward last night, which was almost flawless. What a brilliant strategem! Andrésy gave half the profits to Leglantier and half to Corcol, each man believing himself to be his only associate.'

Joseph paused, raising his hand in a theatrical pose. He imagined treading the boards – at Théâtre du Gymnase, for instance – upstaging Coquelin Cadet by playing opposite Sarah Bernhardt. But which role would he play? The vaivode Otto von Munk or Sublieutenant Wilkinson?

‘Get on with the story!' thundered Kenji.

‘Pierre Andrésy's plan was worthy of Machiavelli. Leglantier failed to make the connection between Grandjean the apprentice engraver and the name on the Ambrex share certificates.'

‘Wait a minute! These two knew each other and yet Leglantier didn't realise?'

‘Apparently, since he went ahead. He was desperate for money and, in any case, his back was covered – his name wasn't mentioned anywhere.'

‘Did Corcol also suffer from amnesia? He was an inspector, after all,' Kenji retorted sarcastically.

‘It was a long time ago. I already told you, in '71 Corcol would pick up the lists of people to be arrested from the police station in the fifth arrondissement. He was snowed under. People were being shot left, right and centre; he had no idea who the informers were.'

‘How did he know they worked at a printer's?'

Kenji, hands in pockets, wrinkled his nose and closed one eye, as if to say: you won't get anything past me.

Joseph, frustrated, turned to Victor.

‘They told the police in order to avoid being picked up. Anyone with grubby clothes or hands was being systematically arrested. As for Daglan, he had nothing to do with it,' he declared emphatically.

‘Yes, tell us more about Daglan,' ordered Kenji.

‘Pierre Andrésy blamed him particularly for having led his younger brother Mathieu astray. If it hadn't been for Daglan's influence, Mathieu would never have become Sacrovir. He would have kept away from the Communards and his family would have come through the slaughter. Do you see?' he said sharply to Kenji.

‘Wipe that surly expression off your face and carry on with your saga.'

‘They needed cigar holders made of real amber in order to dupe the investors. Monsieur Andrésy gave Corcol the name of an enterprising burglar – an urban Robin Hood known as the leopard of Batignolles.'

‘Victor, please translate this gibberish for me,' Kenji said, ‘my nerves are beginning to fray.'

‘Once the Ambrex shares had been sold, Pierre Andrésy wreaked his revenge. He killed Grandjean, then he killed Paul Theneuil, dressed the corpse in his own clothes and placed it in his shop before setting fire to the premises. A dead man can act freely without fear of hindrance. He killed Leglantier then he killed Corcol. His revenge was almost complete.'

‘What about my Persian manuscript, clever clogs?' Kenji asked Joseph.

‘Seeing as he was officially dead, Monsieur Andrésy needed liquid assets. He asked his friend Fourastié to sell a few rare editions belonging to his customers.'

‘And I thought so highly of him,' muttered Kenji.

‘He thought highly of you, too, or he wouldn't have turned his gun on himself – he would simply have shot you.'

‘How did Pierre Andrésy come across his brother's watch?'

‘It's all explained in the letter. Mathieu, to be on the safe side, had hidden his green Communard membership card and his fob watch under a floorboard in his room in Rue Guisarde. The
flics
must have been in a hurry and they just swiped the few belongings he owned. When Pierre returned to France in October 1871, he asked the new tenants if he could take a look around. They were good honest folk and they gave him back the watch. They had torn up the card.'

‘And what part did the cousin play?'

‘There is no cousin. He was an invention. In case Pierre needed to reappear for any reason.'

‘Which is precisely what happened,' said Kenji. ‘Pierre suddenly remembered that he'd taken his brother's watch to be mended. Posing as the cousin, he went to Rue Monsieur-le-Prince to try to get it back, but it was too late, the watchmaker had already given it to you, Victor. When the watchmaker came to the shop yesterday, he told me that the cousin had a scar on his left hand. I knew that Pierre Andrésy had cut himself on a guillotine six or seven years ago. It couldn't have been a coincidence. I fetched one of my antique pistols and rushed over to Rue Fontaine. But why did Pierre think up such a complicated plot? The cigar holders, the shares…Why didn't he just kill them one after the other and disappear?'

‘He wanted them to feel fear, to remember their heinous crime before dying. In order to achieve this he needed to cook up a scheme that would involve all five men without arousing their suspicions and would tarnish their good name. Daglan was the last on his list, and he would be the scapegoat. The messages left on the victims, the death notice, the letter addressed to Theneuil's book-keeper, Monsieur Leuze, all prove this. Unfortunately, Pierre made a mistake by failing to take Paul Theneuil's watch out of his waistcoat. It never occurred to him that we would go nosing about in his affairs.'

‘In one sense, you two prevented him from carrying out the grand finale of his revenge,' Kenji concluded.

‘How is that?'

‘By denying him the satisfaction of seeing Daglan's head roll. The reason he wanted to retrieve the watch at any cost was not to avoid punishment, but to implicate the person he considered most to blame. I can't listen to any more. I'm exhausted. I'm going home to bed. Joseph, give me that letter, and in future please refrain from opening correspondence addressed to me. As for you, Victor, I'm still waiting for Pierre's watch, which you forgot to give me. Good night.'

‘Well, I'm damned, Boss!' exclaimed Joseph when Kenji had gone. ‘He's got a nerve! He's just as much to blame for Andrésy's failure!'

‘Have you two quite finished!' bellowed Euphrosine. ‘I get up at the crack of dawn. I've got work to do. For blooming heaven's sake, it's worse than being in a henhouse! Ah, the cross I have to bear!'

Joseph tiptoed over to close the door, and put his finger to his lips.

‘Not a word, Boss. If Maman ever found out…'

Victor waved a rolled-up newspaper.

‘Too late, it's in all the newspapers.
Le Passe-partout
has printed a special edition detailing the police's initial discoveries. Both my and Monsieur Mori's names are mentioned. This time there was no getting round Inspector Lecacheur. I'm worried that the publicity will be bad for business.'

‘Cheer up, Boss, our customers will come flocking. I'll take the opportunity to fill the shop window with detective novels…I'm curious to know how Daglan will react.'

‘He sent me another coded message. I deliberately avoided mentioning it in front of Monsieur Mori.'

‘Did you manage to decipher it?'

‘I'm not a complete idiot, Joseph. I applied your method. Daglan is leaving the country.'

‘Monsieur Andrésy's letter exonerates him: it clearly states that he had nothing to do with the murders.'

‘With his criminal past he thinks it's advisable to make himself scarce. I like the fellow, I hope he succeeds.'

W
HY
did people say that the sea was blue? Ruffled haphazardly by the wind, it resembled those fields of cinders at the city's edges. At best it might deign to take on a greenish tinge if the clouds freed the sun from its shroud. Leaning against the rail at the stern of the boat, Josette Fatou watched the ship's wake edged with foam and, beyond, the French coastline fading into the distance.

‘Serves you right, serves you right,' a seagull squawked above her head.

It was sheer madness to have fallen into this stranger's arms, submitting to his will to the point of leaving everything behind in order to follow him! But the die was cast, there was no going back. She felt sick with panic, and then she glimpsed the figure outlined against the sky, turned towards her, and her fears dissolved, floating away on the sea spray.

‘Just our luck, the weather's turning today of all days – a taster of that wretched drizzle which is so good for the English lawn. What are you thinking about?'

‘About lawns scattered with daisies, which I will pick and sell in the streets.'

‘You won't need to work again. I'm going to fill our pockets by relieving the English of their pocketbooks. London's a pickpocket's paradise – at least they don't have an Alphonse Bertillon.'
⁷⁰

‘I prefer to make my own living.'

‘You're right, it takes thousands of paupers to make a rich man, the sheep must die to feed the wolf. As you please, my pretty one, I'm sure the flower sellers at Covent Garden will happily move over and make a nice place for you.'

He pulled her to him. She tried to move back, but where could she go? He loosened his hold, brushed her salty lips with his.

‘My little wild one, that's how I like you, unkempt and indomitable. Your scratches and moans show me that I still haven't tamed you.'

‘You always get what you want, don't you?'

‘I try at any rate. You won't be able to change that about me.'

He grinned, as if to say he knew that she was flirting with him, and tried to take her in his arms again, but she pushed him away.

‘At first I took you for a criminal, now I know you're just a petty thief.'

As she said the words, she felt her cheeks flush. It's true, she thought, he wouldn't hurt a fly. If I'm certain of anything, I'm certain of that.

‘A petty thief is a fair description,' he said. ‘I thought I was offering you seventh heaven. You seem disappointed. Perhaps you'd have preferred the smell of blood on me?'

His voice betrayed a hint of playfulness, and to her great surprise Josette caught a glimpse of another happier, more cheerful, carefree world.

She shrugged.

‘What will our future be?'

‘The future is a butterfly, which, once captured, perishes. Damn and blast it, how society bores me! Shopkeepers filling the hourglass of time with their hoard of grain, weaklings hiding pathetically from death behind a pile of possessions…Cast aside your fears and take a deep breath of freedom; I promise you, we'll have a good time!'

Her lover's impetuosity, so fervent despite his age and his old man's disguise, overcame her fears: exile, destitution, the idea that sooner or later she would be abandoned by this man whom she knew was fickle. Then a sudden cloud darkened her horizon.

‘What will become of me the day they throw you in prison?'

‘You'll wait for me or you'll find someone else.'

‘Are you even capable of love?'

‘Ah, love! A mirage that vanishes as soon as we think we've attained it. I don't talk about love, I make love. It was different before, when I was young. I had faith; I swallowed whole the vows of fidelity that go with the words
for ever.
The result? A broken heart, because my lovers and I were powerless to keep such promises. Love? A catch-all phrase, my little one. Love of God, of the fatherland, of good food, of freedom! The promise of a better tomorrow and an end to social injustice! The slaughter of '71 brought me down to earth with a crash. I saw my friends die in the name of freedom, their hearts full of love! I promised myself two things then: never to settle down, and to practise individual reclamation, not driven by the desire for a more just society but as a means of escape. You see how the defender of the poor has ceded the stage to the petty thief.'

‘Wanted by the police and forced to flee the country.'

‘You know perfectly well I had nothing to do with those murders. I don't know why somebody wanted to pin them on me, but I trust my friend Legris to find out.'

‘And yet he's one of those bourgeois types you're so suspicious of.'

‘Bourgeois? Only on the surface. Beneath his veneer of respectability Victor Legris has more in common with me than he imagines.'

‘How long will you and I have things in common, Frédéric?'

‘
Chi lo sa?
'
⁷¹

He took her hand.

‘Our lives have crossed at this moment in time,' he whispered. ‘Come, I want you.'

Frédéric put a hand in his pocket and closed it around Joseph's lost gardenia.

 

Victor kissed Euphrosine's fleshy hand. She simpered, swelling with pride, as pleased about the lace flounces and pistachio-green satin ribbons weighing her down as she was about her wide-brimmed Italian straw hat.

‘To think that finally I'm going to see the sea! I can't believe it! How kind of you, Monsieur Legris, to offer us this holiday at Houlgate!'

‘Monsieur Mori is the one you must thank – it was his idea.'

She began waddling over towards Kenji, but the shrill whistle of a shunting train stopped her in her tracks. When she came back to her senses, it was to count the number of packages and bags strewn across the platform. She'd brought a whole array of stuff with her: plates, goblets, flasks of eau de Cologne, lemon balm, shawls, cushions, rugs, and of course the food hamper. Suddenly she gave a start. Somebody had stolen the basket where she'd put the potted meat and cheese! Oh, thank goodness! There it was, behind one of Mademoiselle Iris's three suitcases – my future daughter-in-law, she thought, enchanted by the slender figure, which she was already picturing heavy with child. I'm so looking forward to being a grandmother – even if I am still Mademoiselle Courlac!

‘These farewells at train stations are becoming a habit, aren't they?' remarked Victor.

‘I'm only leaving you for three weeks. And you're the one who insisted on me going,' retorted Tasha.

Her face strained after the recent attack she had suffered, she'd managed to control her anger and shock at Victor's behaviour and its repercussions; this man whom she loved to the point of accepting his chronic jealousy was also a shameless liar; despite his promises, he'd been working on a case all along, and had it not been for Kenji's intervention…But how could she bear a grudge against the man who had showered her with gifts and covered her with kisses in order to earn her forgiveness, against the man she was going to marry? She'd agreed to go away. This holiday would enable her to finish the illustrations of Homer's works and would give her a rest from Victor's possessiveness. Kenji had assured them that the villa was big enough for them to get away from each other – including those who would gladly spend more time together than was proper, he had added, casting a stern glance at his assistant and his daughter.

Iris, radiant in the dove-grey crêpe dress she had persuaded her father to buy her, was making a mental list of all the bathing costumes she'd bought at the Grands Magasins du Louvre. The one in white ribbed cotton, waisted, with a flounced skirt descending from the hip was sure to create a stir…

Completely oblivious to the sartorial time bomb packed in his sweetheart's suitcase, Joseph was listening obediently to his boss's parting instructions.

‘Make sure she doesn't let go of the cord – she's as light as a feather and before she knows it she'll be dragged out to sea. No swimming for at least four hours after meals, because the risk of fainting is…'

A plaintive miaow rang out. All eyes fell on a basket that was giving little jolts. Tasha picked it up and tried to comfort the unhappy occupant.

‘Poor little Kochka, it'll be all right. Only a four-hour journey and then you'll be able to scamper about…'

‘Won't you keep her inside? She'll run off,' Victor commented, a hint of anticipation in his voice.

‘You'd better keep her locked up in case she does her business all over the carpets. Once an alley cat always an alley cat!' declared Euphrosine.

‘What are you insinuating? Kochka is perfectly house-trained,' retorted Tasha.

Unwilling to offer his opinion on feline hygiene, Kenji was about to resume his list of instructions when he realised that Joseph and Iris had slipped away, and were buying a newspaper from a vendor near to where Victor was smoking a cigarette. He found himself face to face with Djina and stepped back slightly. She suppressed a smile. He's afraid of me…

‘It's strange, this desire to send me away. I understand you wanting to spare Tasha and Iris the inconvenience of a lot of publicity, and that you would place them under Joseph's wing. I approve of your generosity towards Madame Pignot. But I'm surprised at your insistence that I should join them.'

‘Your pupils are away, you have no more classes, and a short break would do you good.'

‘It's kind of you to be concerned about my health.'

‘I imagined that you and Tasha would be happy to spend time together,' he muttered.

‘You will think me ungrateful, but, not being familiar with your generosity, I assumed that you wanted me out of the way because my company displeases you.'

He turned bright red and felt ridiculous; he was tongue-tied. Surprised that this man who was always in control should lose his composure, she felt a flash of joy, as though she'd just won a victory. The steam engine hissed. Like a cock rounding up his hens, Joseph shepherded the four women into the compartment and with Victor and Kenji's help heaved the baggage up after them.

‘What a lot of luggage! Anyone would think we were off to China!' he cried out to his bosses, waving his hat from the window. ‘Don't worry, I'll look after them!'

Kenji blew a kiss to his daughter and cast a long, anxious glance at Djina. Victor stared at Tasha, half squashed by Euphrosine.

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, it certainly spits out enough steam – what if it blows up?'

A guard closed the doors and the whistle screeched. The train jolted into life and made a loud grating sound as it moved towards Pont de l'Europe before being swallowed up by the Batignolles tunnel.

 

In the stuffy cab racing along Rue de Rome, Victor tried hard to force out the image of his ex-lover, Odette de Valois, who had also left Paris for Houlgate four years before.

‘What are your plans this evening?' Kenji asked.

‘To go back to Rue Fontaine and sleep, provided the gentlemen from the police department and the press will allow me. How about you?'

‘I'm going to take the ashes, which are not Pierre Andrésy's, to Paul Theneuil's widow. Then I think I'll go out, just to take my mind off things.'

‘Ah! I see…'

‘What do you see?'

‘One of your many fervent admirers,' murmured Victor, not daring to name Eudoxie.

‘You're wrong. I'm going out with a man.'

‘A man?' echoed Victor, raising his eyebrows.

‘Wipe that startled expression off your face. My sexual preferences haven't undergone the radical change you are insinuating. I'm simply inviting a very dear friend, who is like a son to me, to a show, because, although he prefers burying himself in a corner, I'm determined to cheer him up.'

‘You don't mean…'

‘Yes, you, Victor. I thought we'd go to the Folies-Bergère. The sight of all those pretty women will lift our spirits.'

‘Is that the wise man or the old roué speaking?'

Kenji wore his cat-like expression, one eye half closed, the other twinkling. He pretended to yawn and fall asleep, oblivious to the jolting of the cab. Touched, Victor made as if to thank him then thought better of it and leant back in his seat, forcing himself to study the fountains in Place de la Concorde. The criminal case that had come to an end dissolved into droplets of water and was borne away on the breeze.

 

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, all those gory murders…What a violent world we live in. And to think you were mixed up in all that!' remarked Euphrosine, closing
Le Passe-partout.

In order to create a distraction and clear the atmosphere, heavy with disapproval, Joseph declared, ‘There are doctors who recommend even more dangerous activities – such as sport, for instance. Football alone has accounted for seventy-one deaths in England in the space of eighteen months!'

‘Don't change the subject. Helping Monsieur Legris and Monsieur Mori in their foolishness is more dangerous than any sport. You expose yourself to terrible dangers protecting the innocent! Can't you just write nice romantic stories that make humble folk cry? Don't you agree, Madame Iris?'

‘Yes! Why, only yesterday Joseph took
Thule's Golden Chalice
to Antonin Clusel, who promised him it will be coming out in October. He even gave him an advance.'

‘Is that true, pet? Why didn't you tell me before!'

‘We were saving the news till now.'

‘So, 1893 will be a good year after all. Monsieur Victor and Mademoiselle Tasha's marriage, your marriage, and a novel! This deserves a toast! Come to think of it, I'm feeling a bit peckish – it must be the speed.'

While Tasha and Djina congratulated Jojo and Iris, Euphrosine began unpacking the provisions. The compartment was soon filled with the smell of garlic sausage. The red wine flowed into the goblets and they drank a toast.