In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (15 page)

Edmond Leglantier swallowed, and curled his lip.

‘Whatever is the matter, my friend? I sense animosity in your voice. Have I offended you in some way? I don’t understand…’

‘Ah, so you don’t understand, you damnable vulture preying on honest men’s flesh!’

Brandishing a handful of Ambrex shares, the Duc de Frioul drove Edmond Leglantier back to the wing chair.

‘Monsieur le Duc, I beg you to be reasonable. I’m neither a rat nor a vulture. Why this amounts to—’

‘An outrageous amount of money! You extorted a fortune out of me, and in exchange for what? A few scraps of…of paper fit only for the sewer. They’re worthless, do you understand? Utterly worthless! I’m going to make you pay,’ the Duc hissed.

Rage had reduced his eyes to slits.

‘What! Worthless?…Why, that’s impossible! It’s an outrage! I can’t breathe,’ moaned Edmond Leglantier.

He fell into a swoon, taking care to land on a chair. Disconcerted, the Duc de Frioul shook him by the shoulder.

‘I know your game,’ he growled. ‘You’re sticking to your story, you rogue, and trying to wheedle your way out of it.’

‘No, I swear! I invested every penny I had in this scheme…I’m ruined…I might as well end it all!’ cried Edmond Leglantier, his voice quaking. ‘Bring me some water…This is a bad dream. You must be mistaken!’

‘I only wish I was. On the contrary, I’ve uncovered the fraud.’

‘Do you mean the shares are bogus?’

‘At first sight they appear flawless. The problem is the revolutionary substance they claim to be selling.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘You remember the cigar holders you gave me to convince me they were imitation Baltic amber? Well, they’re real. I was suspicious so I put a red-hot needle to one of them and it produced only a tiny blister. This proves beyond any doubt that they’re made of pure resin! You swindled me and my associates. We’ll drag you before the courts.’

‘You’re forgetting that I’ve been fleeced too.’

‘It’s you who sold us these worthless scraps of paper. You acted as the inventor’s guarantor!’

‘I’ll wring his neck!’

The Duc de Frioul sneered.

‘Right now, he’s probably smoking a cigar on the Côte d’Azur and splitting his sides at the thought of having cleaned us out.’

‘And what if you’re wrong? What if this substance has the same reaction to heat as real amber?’

‘How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no such substance, any more than there is money that grows on trees,’ the Duc de Frioul repeated, his face flushed, striking the keys of a typewriter forcefully to accentuate his words.

He composed himself, and added coldly, ‘I tried to find the notary, this Maître Piard. I made enquiries at the chamber of notaries. Nobody had ever heard of him. As for the printer, the courts will no doubt deem him to have acted in good faith; you, on the other hand…’

‘Me! Oh woe is me! I was taken in! I’m ruined!’

‘Stuff and nonsense! You have your theatre.’

‘It’s mortgaged up to the hilt.’

‘I couldn’t care less.’

‘It’s too dreadful for words!’

Edmond Leglantier then did something which neither he nor the Duc de Frioul would ever have expected. He began to sob. He made no attempt to hide his shame. The tears rolled down his cheeks, he sniffled and drooled, the very picture of despair. Bemused, the Duc de Frioul went over to pat him on the back. But it was no use, Edmond Leglantier’s howls grew steadily louder, and his face puffed up like a toad. Defeated, the Duc de Frioul beat a hasty retreat, abandoning his plans for a duel, incapable of heaping further suffering on a fellow already in such despair.

Edmond Leglantier waited for a few seconds after the door had quietly closed before grabbing his flannel waistcoat and drying his eyes and blowing his nose.

‘Hell’s bells! What a waste! With a performance like that I would have triumphed on stage. End of Act One. Beginning of Act Two: my great-aunt Augustine in Condé-sur-Noireau has just passed away and I will very shortly receive news that I’m her sole heir.’

He stood squarely in front of the mirror, hand on heart, and declaimed, ‘Today tragedy, tomorrow farce! French farce, of course,’ he concluded, smothering his face in cold cream.

The chimneystacks stood out against the pink light glowing above the rooftops. Shut up in his lodge all afternoon, Casimir Myon twisted his neck to catch a glimpse of the tiny rectangle of sky from the bottom of the shaft that rose five storeys high. During this bright spell, he could smoke his pipe and lose himself in speculations about the weather.

‘Today has been thundery, but the sky is clear now, apart from a few fluffy clouds. Tomorrow will be fine…They look like grains of rice, no, more like tapioca.’

The idea of food made his stomach rumble and he felt a pang of hunger. It was time to prepare his supper. After filling a jug with water from the pump in the courtyard, Casimir Myon walked back into the cramped hovel allocated to him as concierge of Théâtre de l’Échiquier next to the stage door. On hearing the slosh of water in the pot, a black cat, which had been curled up on the ledge of the only window, stretched and miaowed.

‘Patience, Moka, I’ve only got two hands! I’ve got to peel the vegetables while the water’s heating up…Here, have this as an hors d’oeuvre.’

Taking his time, he cut a piece of lung into small strips and laid it on some newspaper. While Moka chewed, he sat down at the table and began peeling the potatoes and carrots which he would supplement with a piece of pork rind. The sound of hammering echoed down the corridor leading to the orchestra pit; the theatre was being renovated in anticipation of its reopening. On the left of the room, a padded door opened on to the foyer, which in turn led to the box office. Casimir Myon had put an armchair in front of it to stop the actors and props men from barging in all the time. These people hadn’t an ounce of common sense; they led riotous lives and were quite capable of sending him out on a whim to buy a cigar or deliver a love letter. He wouldn’t be surprised if they knocked him up in the middle of the night because they’d left a handkerchief on stage.

‘This place might be a hovel, but it’s my home, and I don’t want to share it with the likes of you, so hop it, you lot!’ the concierge was fond of saying.

And so, when somebody began pounding on his door, all he did was stifle a yawn and raise his eyes to heaven. But he put down his knife when a woman’s voice cried out, ‘Monsieur Myon, Monsieur Myon! Help! It stinks of gas!’

The word ‘gas’ had an instantaneous effect and the armchair was dragged away, allowing in the actress playing the part of Maria de Medici.

‘Calm down, Mademoiselle Eugénie. Where’s it coming from?’

‘From the first-floor staircase. It was one of the carpenters who warned me – he rushed up to Monsieur Leglantier’s room.’

‘Has Monsieur Leglantier been told?’

‘Yes, he’s shut himself in his office. He was supposed to come down for a costume fitting. We’ve been waiting for him for over an hour! The others sent me up to find out what was going on and that’s when the carpenter told me to go back down on account of the gas.’

Casimir Myon hurried to the foot of the stairs where he could tell from the overpowering stench that there was a major gas leak.

‘Whatever you do don’t light a match, anybody. I’m going to air the place.’

Clasping a handkerchief to his face, he ran up to the dimly lit first-floor landing and opened the casement window then examined the pipes, which seemed to be in order. Behind him, Maria de Medici couldn’t stop coughing.

‘What about upstairs, in Monsieur Leglantier’s office…He might have come out again and forgotten to turn off the gas,’ she suggested.

They continued mounting the stairs. The concierge went over to the door of the office. He felt faint and hung on to the doorknob.

‘Are you there, Monsieur Leglantier?’

There was no reply.

‘Where’s the fireman on duty?’

‘Alfred Truchon? He’s at his post in the auditorium.’

‘Go and fetch him as quick as you can, and tell the police! Hurry, there may be an explosion any moment.’

Tripping over her petticoats, Maria de Medici ran down to the ground floor and returned in a flash with the fireman hot on her heels. They managed to push their way past the musketeers, stagehands, gentlemen in ruffs and ladies in hooped skirts who had gathered around the concierge, getting on his nerves with all their suggestions.

The fireman wedged a chisel between the door and the doorjamb and, with a massive shove, broke the lock. Pushing the door open proved more difficult, and only when they had succeeded did it become apparent what had been blocking it: the manager of Théâtre de l’Échiquier lay slumped on the floor, his body twisted as though he were drunk. Andréa gasped in fright. The gas fumes drove back the crowd. Casimir Myon had great difficulty forcing open the window, as the handle was jammed, and left the fireman to attend to Edmond Leglantier.

Alfred Truchon knelt down beside him. ‘He’s not breathing…Fetch a doctor, quick!’ he cried out to the onlookers.

The concierge felt dizzy for a moment and held on to the back of a chair. He braced himself. His vision, which had blurred for a second, became sharp again, and he noticed a piece of paper stuck in the typewriter barrel. His duty was to read it.

‘Is he…Is he dead?’ stammered Andréa, clutching the shoulder of Maria de Medici, who remained silent.

It wasn’t Ravaillac who had slain Henry IV this time, but the city’s gas supply.

Chapter Seven

Tuesday 18 July

V
ICTOR
was in a foul mood. He was annoyed with Joseph and with Tasha for having foisted a lovelorn, flea-ridden kitten on him. Kochka’s rasping miaows and scratchings at the door had woken him at two in the morning.

‘Why don’t you let her in?’ Tasha had suggested.

‘Why don’t I sling her in the studio!’

‘She’ll claw my canvases to shreds!’

So Kochka had nestled between their pillows and promptly expressed her euphoria by purring loudly.

Victor had tossed, turned, scratched himself and wondered how such a skinny little creature could make such a din, before finally dropping off just before dawn.

The next morning, his eyes still puffy from sleep, he pushed his bicycle along Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, even though his two visits the previous day and the day before that had provided no useful information. This time he was in luck. As he walked past a building with a flaking façade, a bare-headed woman appeared and rushed over to a small boy who was diligently stirring a pile of horse droppings in the middle of the road. There were shouts, slaps and howls, but they did not deflect Victor from asking his ritual question.

‘Forgive me for bothering you. You didn’t happen to hear an explosion the day Monsieur Andrésy’s shop burnt down?’

The woman froze, clutching the child who struggled to get free.

‘How did you know? Yes, there was a blast –
bang, bang
. It gave me such a fright I dropped my saucepan of milk; luckily it was only lukewarm. Poor Monsieur Andrésy, such an obliging man, always willing to look after this scamp for me.’

She was suddenly aware of the danger her child had escaped, and clasped him to her skirts.

‘Did he have friends?’ Victor pursued.

‘He wasn’t very sociable, but I sometimes saw him with a large, cheerful-looking bloke. They would lunch together at Chez Fulbert on the corner.’

Her son wriggled free and made a dash for it. She ran after him, caught him and, forgetting her recent surge of affection, promised him another slap if he was naughty again.

On a trestle table outside the Chez Fulbert tavern stood a row of glasses and some carafes filled with pink liquid. A slate advertised:

Grenadine – ten centimes a glass

A flabby girl offered feebly, ‘Refreshments? With free ice.’

‘Put a bit more energy into it, Marie-Louise, you sound like you’re selling a sleeping draught,’ a voice shouted from inside.

There was laughter. Victor joined a group of regulars at the bar.

‘That lass is no bright spark, but she’s easy on the eye,’ a road worker remarked.

‘Hey, Arsène, you keep your hands to yourself or you’ll feel my boot on your backside.’

The landlord, a rotund little man, sliced the head off a glass of beer with a violent gesture and slapped it down in front of one of his customers.

‘For you?’ he barked at Victor.

‘A vermouth cassis, please. I’m trying to track down anyone who knew Monsieur Andrésy. Somebody just told me that he used to have lunch here with a friend.’

‘Somebody told you right. First Sunday of every month, regular as clockwork, at that table over by the window. They were old comrades – fought together in that filthy war. Talk about a tragedy!’

A customer hidden behind a newspaper raised his head.

‘Do you happen to know the friend’s name?’ Victor asked.

‘Monsieur Andrésy always called him Gustave. He lives near La Chapelle, Rue…Rue…My errand boy would know, only he’s away at a wedding until the 24th. He delivered a case of table wine to Monsieur Gustave last year – a gift from Monsieur Andrésy, the real stuff, mind, straight from the vine. My brother’s a winegrower in La Gironde. Here, try some – it’ll tickle your taste buds more than that cassis of yours!’

He poured a slug of red wine into a glass. The regulars pricked up their ears at the sound of the pleasant glug-glug. The man reading lowered his newspaper to take a closer look at the lucky recipient of such largesse. Victor tasted the wine and clicked his tongue.

‘Full-bodied, fruity with a good bouquet, my compliments to your brother.’

‘It’s a shame! They were here just a couple of weeks ago. I can still see Marie-Louise bringing them a cassoulet and almost tipping it over them because she tripped over her own feet.’

‘Like I said, not the brightest of lasses…’

‘I won’t tell you again, Arsène, belt up or get out,’ growled Fulbert. ‘It’s impossible to have a private conversation around here. Where was I? Oh yes, we get used to having people around and when they kick the bucket we realise that time is marching on and we’re all on the same slippery slope.’