In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) (2 page)

‘Right on time! You certainly don’t keep people waiting,’ he said, stretching nonchalantly.

‘This blasted heat! The sweat’s dripping off me. Is there somewhere quieter where we can talk?’

‘I’ve reserved a private room upstairs.’

They crossed the restaurant where waiters were busy bringing plates of fried smelts, sautéed potatoes and jugs of white wine to the tables. A flight of stairs took them up to a landing and they entered a room at the end. They sat down, face to face, and studied each other. The man in the bowler had puffy eyes and broken veins on his fleshy face, which was framed by a mop of curly hair and grizzled whiskers. He looked like a shaggy dog.

No wonder they call him the Spaniel, thought his companion, who had an aquiline nose and a jauntily turned up blond moustache.

He himself had a cat-like physique. His expression was half mocking, half disdainful, and he looked constantly on the verge of laughter. He exuded an innate charm, which made him very successful with women, but so far had failed to win over his sullen companion.

‘Call the waiter, I’m in a hurry,’ grumbled the Spaniel, crushing his cigar stub underfoot.

‘Don’t worry, Monsieur, they know we’re here. I’m a regular. We’ll get the royal treatment. While we’re waiting, tell me how much I’ll be getting.’

‘Two hundred. It’s an easy job.’

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Purloin a few cigar holders.’

‘You’re pulling my leg, Monsieur! Two hundred francs for some cigar holders?’

‘They’re made of amber. Will you do it, Daglan?’

‘How many do you need?’

‘About fifty – more if possible.’

‘And where do I find this junk?’

‘Bridoire’s Jeweller’s. Rue de la Paix, on the corner of Rue Daunou. If you pocket any trinkets, put them on ice – you can fence them later.’

The door opened and two waiters came in, one carrying a roast turkey, the other a bottle of Muscadet, glasses, plates and a bowl of
frites
on a tray. The waiters laid the table, carved the bird, served the wine and left.

‘Enjoy, Monsieur.’

The Spaniel gave a whistle.

‘Well, blow me, no wonder you’re always broke if you spend your money like this, my lad,’ he mumbled, piercing a drumstick with his fork.

‘A smile at last! I’ve a confession: the turkey didn’t cost me a penny. But then they don’t come craftier than me!’

Indeed, in his criminal career, Frédéric Daglan had distinguished himself in many ways – enough to make the list of the ten brightest and best brigands. He had started out as a thief, substituting fake silver for real, then became apprenticed to a confidence trickster. He possessed keen powers of observation, was a talented scout and had a fertile imagination. He was also well versed in the penal system, and had become an expert in coded language, thus avoiding any mishaps should his messages be intercepted.

‘So this turkey cost you nothing? How very amusing! Then tell me how you came by it,’ said the Spaniel, stuffing a huge piece of roasted skin in his mouth.

‘Yesterday, I was hanging around in the lobby of the Palais de Justice, waiting for a friend, and I saw His Honour Judge Lamastre, you know the fellow I mean – wields his gavel with the ease of a carpenter and sends people down for nothing! That’s when I heard him mutter to a colleague: “Damned nuisance, I left my watch at home this morning. Can’t bear not knowing the time during a hearing. And I’m on duty until late tonight: the jurors are deliberating in the high court.” His words didn’t fall on deaf ears! I’ve been hobnobbing with these law lords for years, and where they live is no secret to me. I didn’t hang about. I bought a nice fat turkey, and rang our dear Judge Lamastre’s doorbell.’

‘You rogue!’ bawled the Spaniel, taking a swig of wine.

‘A servant let me in and I told him: “I’ve come to deliver this stuffed turkey, which His Honour Judge Lamastre purchased on his way to court. It’s for lunch tomorrow. He told me that while I was at it I should fetch his chronometer, which he left at home this morning, and assured me I’d be paid for my trouble.” See how polite I can be, Monsieur.’

‘I see that you’re a prize scoundrel.’

‘The servant informed his unsuspecting mistress, Madame Lamastre, who took delivery of the turkey and handed me the watch together with a fifty-centime tip – those worthies are a stingy lot.’

‘What did you do with the watch, you rascal?’

‘I sold it sharpish, for forty francs. It was worth at least a thousand. Times are hard, Monsieur, and fences are unscrupulous in their dealings with the poor.’

‘And the turkey?’

‘Early the next day, I sent my mate to fetch it. There it was already roasting on the spit, its skin turning that golden brown which is a delight to anyone who’s fond of their food. “Quick,” said my friend, “hand over the turkey. His Honour Judge Lamastre has sent me to fetch it. The thief who stole his watch is under lock and key and the court demands to see the incriminating evidence.” This explanation seemed credible to Madame Lamastre, who swallowed it whole. She ordered the bird to be removed from the spit, and given to my chum, who hurried off, not wanting to keep the judges waiting, you understand. And how is my bird?’

‘Utterly delicious, you devil!’ acknowledged the Spaniel, quivering with laughter.

He wiped his mouth and began cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

‘So, can I count on you?’

‘When do you need your cigar holders?’

‘A week today, here, same time.’

‘That’s not much time.’

‘You’ll have to manage as best you can. And if anything goes wrong, mum’s the word, all right? We’ve never met.’

‘Rest assured, when Frédéric Daglan’s lips are sealed, the Devil himself couldn’t prise them open. Go on, drink up and eat your fill. It’d be a shame to waste such a handsome bird, especially as I can’t promise you another one next Sunday!’

The afternoon of the same day

The Église Sainte-Marie-des-Batignolles with its triangular pediment and Doric columns was reminiscent of a Greek temple. Beside it, an ornamental grotto, a waterfall and a tiny stream were laid out in an oasis of greenery which overlooked the railway tracks. Frédéric Daglan strolled around the miniature lake where a few ducks were splashing. Slung over his shoulder was a case with a faded coat of arms on its flap depicting a blue and gold leopard passant. He reflected on the situation: two hundred francs was a lot for stealing a few cigar holders, even if they were made of amber. What was that fat pig cooking up? He would have him tailed – he had to cover myself.

He stopped next to a park keeper’s hut. An elderly veteran in a shabby uniform gave him a military salute.

‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Daglan.’

‘Good afternoon, Brigadier Clément. How’s life treating you? Any pickings today?’

‘A teat, a stick without its hoop, a knitting needle and a comic. Oh, Monsieur Daglan, the worst thing is not being able to sit down! They’re giving me the chop, you know. They say I’m too old, even though I do my job properly. After fifty you’re a burden on the state. I’ll be gone by the end of August. The missus is worried sick, what with our boy scarcely earning his crust at the Gouin machine shop, and a growing girl at home! We’ll just have to manage on the small pension they give me. By the way, the missus said to thank you for the cherries. They’re very dear this year so she was pleased as punch. She plans to make jam out of them and a special jar of cherries in brandy for you.’

‘Don’t mention it – they cost me nothing.’

‘Are you going to work, Monsieur Daglan?’

‘Yes, I’m going to write out the evening menus. It’s pretty straightforward. The taverners give the leftovers from lunch another name and, hey presto, tuna in
sauce verte
becomes tuna mayonnaise, tomatoes in butter sauce turn into stuffed tomatoes, and so on.’

Daglan slipped the old man a coin.

‘Here’s a little something for you, Père Clément. And don’t worry, you won’t need to hock any of your belongings while I’m around.’

‘Oh no, Monsieur Daglan, no charity, please!’

‘Charity, Père Clément? Do you want to hurt my feelings? The path of life is strewn with obstacles. Somebody helped me once – now it’s my turn.’

Friday 16 June

A builder with face and hair covered in plaster dust was passing the stables owned by the Debrise Brothers, a stone’s throw from Église Saint-Denis-de-la-Chapelle. He stopped outside a bar and washed his hands at a pump where carters filled pails for watering their horses. The air smelt of fresh cheese and milk. The builder pulled down his cap, crossed the roundabout near the coal yard and walked down Rue Jean-Cottin, with its hotchpotch of buildings.

The builder passed a boy bouncing a ball against a fence. The boy gave him a knowing look and began chanting:

‘General Kléber,

At the gates of Hell

Met a Prussian

Who wished him well.’

The builder gave a faint nod, and entered the courtyard of a run-down building. Slowly, he climbed the stairs up several floors. On reaching the third floor, he took a pick from his pocket, slipped it into a keyhole without touching the escutcheon, found the latch and carefully lifted it.

The first room was cluttered, with a mirrored wardrobe, a table, a glass-fronted bookcase, four chairs and a stove.

The builder removed his shoes and began a meticulous search. The wardrobe contained only two jackets, a waistcoat, three pairs of trousers and two sets of bed linen. In the bedroom were an unmade bed, a pile of dirty laundry and a slop bucket. He lifted the mattress quickly. The tension in his face eased as his eye alighted on a brown briefcase in the middle of the bed base. He pulled a bundle of documents out of it and studied them closely. He froze in amazement.

‘Good God! The dirty…!’

His throat tightened; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to stifle his mounting rage. Stay calm, he told himself.

Outside the boy squawked:

‘Who left the people to rot?

That was Riquiqui’s lot.’

The builder drew back the curtain. Two women stood chattering in the courtyard.

He put everything back in its place and, checking that he’d left no traces, picked up his shoes and went out. After clicking the latch behind him, he started back down the stairs.

At the bottom, Frédéric Daglan tied his shoelaces, his hands shaking.

Saturday 17 June

At lunchtime there was no one left in the shops on Rue de la Paix. A wave of clerks and female workers headed for the cheap eateries on the Boulevards. Dressmakers, salesmen, seamstresses and clerks jostled one another, pushing past the cashiers from Crédit Lyonnais who were enjoying a smoke in the doorways of the restaurants where they would feast on boiled beef and bacon stew. A pair of constables eyed up the apprentice dressmakers in their white blouses, black skirts and coloured ankle boots forced onto the road by the crowds. A laundress paused in a doorway, took a croissant and a slab of chocolate out of her bag and began eating, oblivious to the bawdy comments of a housepainter sitting astride his stepladder. Gradually, the neighbourhood fell silent. The only people left were a news vendor sitting in her kiosk, a bread roll on her lap; a concierge sweeping the pavement vigorously; and a lad in an apron listlessly cleaning a jeweller’s shop window under the watchful eye of a constable.

A donkey and cart pulled up next to the constable. The driver, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, doffed his cap.

‘Excuse me, Constable, could you direct me to Bridoire’s Jeweller’s, please?’

‘It’s right here,’ said the copper, pointing at the shop window, which the lad in the apron had just finished cleaning.

‘Bother, it’s closed! I was supposed to deliver a crate here this morning. I won’t have time this afternoon. What if I leave it in the doorway? Nobody would dare steal it with you around…’

The constable paused, scratched his head then nodded.

‘All right, son. The shop assistants will be back at one thirty.’

Together they heaved the crate up against the shop door.

‘It weighs a ton. What have you got in there, lead?’ asked the policeman.

‘It’s marble. Much obliged to you!’

The cart moved off down Rue Gaillon, briskly overtaking two cabs and an omnibus, then turned into Rue de Choiseul.

Constable Sosthène Cotret discharged his mission with remarkable zeal considering he stood to gain nothing. In the meantime he allowed himself the pleasure of contemplating an amber smoking kit, which was displayed next to a gold-plated tumbler and a set of sapphire jewels. He pictured himself blowing smoke rings into Inspector Pachelin’s face, and imagined his superior gazing enviously at Madame Julienne Cotret wafting through the police station in a sparkling tiara.

He was so rapt in his daydream that he didn’t notice the same cart pulling up three quarters of an hour later. The young delivery man had to tap him on the shoulder, immediately apologising for his forwardness.

‘I only delivered the wrong blooming crate, didn’t I? My boss almost killed me! I’ve brought the right one this time. Would you mind helping me swap them over?’

They replaced the first crate with the second. Sosthène Cotret’s joints groaned under the strain and he cursed his bad luck for being allotted this beat.

‘Blimey, what a weight! Is this marble, too?’

‘Yes. The difference is this one’s red and the other one’s black. Much obliged, Constable.’

Sosthène Cotret cursed as he rubbed his aching back, knowing that his blasted sciatica would soon make him pay for his obliging nature.

Monday 19 June

Perched on his stepladder behind the counter at the Elzévir bookshop, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Joseph Pignot, bookshop assistant, was reading aloud from
Le Passe-partout
for the benefit of his boss, Victor Legris, who was paying little attention to what he considered a trivial news items.

‘…It was a tone thirty that the shop assistants of Bridoire’s Jeweller’s noticed the break-in. Curiously, only smoking accessories had been stolen. Why had the thieves ignored the diamond bracelets, precious pearls, watches and valuable silver and gold pieces? Equally puzzling is the fact that policeman Sosthène Cotret, who was on duty in Rue Daunou at the time, saw nothing – despite claiming that he didn’t take his eyes off the shop window. The authorities should supply him with a pair of spectacles!