Authors: Beatrice Hitchman
The 16th must be directly ahead; a flash near the horizon might be the rose-tinted windows of Notre-Dame. I thought I had the Boulevard St Michel and tried to follow it down to the 14th but lost the trail before rue Boissonnade came clear. Each time I tried my effort was poorer, and the lines of the
streets blurred into one another and petered out in unlikely endings. The closest I could get was the Panthéon: in one of those windows a mile to the south of its white dome – or perhaps those over to the right – Agathe was turning over in bed, mouth sagging open; and in another, Camille would be sleeping, her thin arms stretched out above her head.
Trees becoming roads: a breeze, leaves shaking themselves at me.
A woman on the other side of the road, wheeling a covered barrow from which rose the smell of fresh bread. Her look, quick and suspicious. The smart tap of her footsteps and the squeak of the wheels going away from me.
Exotic birds in greens and purples. One saying, hands on hips:
It’s a wonder you get any trade, looking like that
. Then they scattered in a twirling of parasols and a shimmer of laughter.
Then the sun was higher than I had realised, and achingly bright; the streets were narrower, and emptier, but I had no idea which district I was in. Passing faces were blurs, looming in at me and vanishing.
Someone buffeted into me: pain shot up my arm, and he said, ‘Look out, can’t you?’
I snatched at him. ‘I don’t recognise anything,’ I said, ‘where am I?’ but it was like catching a phantom: he pulled his sleeve out of my grip.
‘The 14th, of course,’ he said, frowning, and walked away.
My gaze began to waver again, useless and desperate, over the stone façades of the apartment blocks – and suddenly I saw the fat face of the greengrocer at the bottom of rue Boissonnade, staring back at me. The coffee-and-stew smell from the restaurant next door, the pine-green newspaper kiosk on the corner, with the boy calling the day’s news. A dusty slamming sound: overhead there were even the two familiar women whose names I had never learned, gossiping
as they beat their rugs over their balconettes.
I hobbled across the street towards him.
‘Mademoiselle Roux!’ he said. ‘How did you escape?’
I knew, even in my feverish state, that this could not be right.
‘Was I misinformed?’ he said. ‘The police said nobody got out.’
I stared back at him.
‘This morning,’ he said, and then again: ‘Was I misinformed?’
His eyes travelled past me, over the street towards number fourteen.
There was a police officer standing at the entrance to the apartment block, arms behind his back, watching the street.
I walked across the street to the policeman and stood a few metres away, looking at a kicked-in hole in the door. The officer shifted on his feet and looked more closely at me.
‘Can I help, Mademoiselle?’ he asked.
I cleared my throat. The sound was rusty and unreal. ‘What happened?’
‘There’s been an incident. Three people were found shot in one of the apartments.’
‘Which one?’
‘Top floor. A landlady, one woman of dubious reputation and one other.’
‘What happened to the young one? The girl?’
He frowned. ‘I told you, nobody got out. How did you know she was young?’
I began to shake. He was staring at me as if he knew me from somewhere; turning, I walked away from him, and did not look back.
Who was it André knew? It didn’t matter. He must have nodded and smiled at his guests as they chattered about the prowler
over the remains of their supper – all the time playing with his cutlery and thinking:
What if?
With brandy and cards passed out, he would excuse himself and run up to his study, and lift the telephone receiver from the cradle; give the rue Boissonnade address. He had written to Mathilde, once, and paid my rent up to date for me so that I could go to live with him. He knew that I knew nobody else in the city.
He would give a description – seventeen, thin, dark hair.
Then downstairs again to sit in the salon, listening to the talk. Waved the guests off in due course; watching them shrug their stoles around their shoulders as they got into their cars.
Much later, the shrilling of the telephone would wake him. They’d found a girl in one of the bedrooms who matched the description he’d given, and disposed of the others when they came shouting. And André would have said,
Yes, fine
. He had never known I had a sister.
I wandered away, towards the river, and went down the steps to the
quais
.
Under the bridge was a fire set alight in an old container, and men and women huddled round. I thought I saw Monsieur Z; I thought he waved; but I was too tired to do anything other than shoulder my way in and curl up amongst the other bodies.
When I opened my eyes it was dark. The moon was a full white coin, and Camille was lying next to me. Her face was as cool and smooth as a child’s.
She pursed her lips when I put a finger to her face, and pulled back.
I asked:
Did the men leave a sign by which I can find them? I could go to the law
.
She shook her head.
Then how should we get revenge?
Her glance wavered down to fix on my shoulder; then back to my face.
We lay for a while opposite each other, listening to the shouts of a fight breaking out amongst the people further down the row. She shook her arm out as if it had given her pins and needles.
Where you are – what’s it like?
She did a mock-shiver, drawing an invisible shawl around her ears.
Juliette, vii
.
When I arrive at the archive, my things have been left out on my desk overnight, the papers arranged in exactly the same order.
There are three articles in the press about the fire;
Le Figaro
,
Le Temps
and
Le Petit Parisien
. They all agree that the fire started about seven o’clock in the morning, in Building J, which was used by certain of the editors. The fire spread rapidly to the surrounding buildings; within minutes the factory was evacuated. Apart from that there is nothing of interest. All of them attribute the blaze to an accident.
Then I turn to the folder marked ‘Witness Statements’ and a set of papers slip out. I scan them for the Préfecture de Police stamp, and don’t see it; flip back to the front sheet and see writing in a tiny, crabbed hand:
Property of Internal Security – Pathé Factory. If found, please return to Building I
.
The typewriter ink on the first statement has faded to pale blue.
REY Edouard
Security guard – day Shift
At seven o’clock on 8 January, I was alerted to the fire by a member of my patrol and we went straight to Building J where we saw that the fire had only recently taken hold. We immediately gave the order to evacuate the entire factory.
The largest quantity of smoke issued from the south-west corner of the building, which an editor tells me is where he
stores his completed masters, ready to be collected and sent off for duplication.
I did not see anyone in the immediate vicinity of the building.
PHILIBERT Marc
Guard – Night Shift
On my rounds at a quarter to seven I saw nothing out of the ordinary. I was unable to check the door because I had lent my key out the previous night to a director, but I observed that it was fastened and there was no evidence of disturbance.
I proceeded on my way, returning to my cabin at five minutes to seven, and was roused from my cabin by shouts, at which point I made my way to Building J to see a sheet of yellow flame.
In summary, I did not see anything unusual that day. I cannot think of anyone who would want to start the fire deliberately.
There are no more witness statements: just a folder marked ‘Photographs’. But when I open the folder, only one print slips onto the desk.
Black and white grins: three lines of men formally posed, in front of the wall of a building. The front two rows are young men, lolling about in overalls and caps. Behind them is a row of five starchier looking, older men in dark suits and ties. Underneath is a date:
7. janvier 1914. Pathé directors and juniors enjoying a break at the factory
.
I press my thumbs to my eyelids until the shapes appear.
Testimony of M. le Docteur HARBLEU
Q. […] you were the physician called by Sergeant Moreau to the gendarmerie on the afternoon of 8. janvier?
A. Correct.
Q. And your findings were?
A. I saw a young female of between fifteen and twenty years in age. Her records were not on file and she confirmed she came from a small parish near Toulouse where written certification was sparse. She gave her name as Adèle Roux, 17.
Q. The wound?
A. Was clean in appearance, from a small-calibre handgun, from a short distance. The victim had been extremely fortunate; the bullet had passed within an inch of the upper left lung, and exited behind the shoulder. The arm hung from its socket – that is to say, the arm’s motor function was naturally impaired – but the victim was able to walk and talk. There was no sepsis. I would say the wound was a day or two old, at best. In short, if one had aimed the bullet precisely it would have been hard to do less permanent damage.
Q. What was your impression of Mlle Roux?
A. She let me look at her without fuss. If she felt pain on examination she did not show it.
Q. Did she say anything to you?
A. I asked her who had done it and she said ‘M. Durand of Pathé; and his wife.’ When I asked her what she meant, she became agitated, and asked for someone to fetch the police inspector […]
André, vi
.
Inspector Japy blows smoke at the façade of André Durand’s house.
It is a fine morning, with an improbable seasonal change in the air: the turf underfoot feels springy for the first time in months; white strips of cloud hurry across the sky. In front of the house, a chauffeur is playing a hose over the bonnet of a grey Daimler.
Go careful
, Japy’s superior had begged, sweating in his over-hot office.
Just find out if the girl worked for them, then find out why she ran away, or whatever it was: end of story
. His boss had dusted his hands of an imaginary embarrassment.
Japy had smiled sleepily. He’d reached the door before his boss had cracked:
Japy! Absolutely no mesmerism! Understand?
The chauffeur looks up at his approach, flat feet crunching over gravel, and frowns: ‘Can I help?
‘Is M. Durand at home?’
The chauffeur blinks at Japy’s stained grey overcoat. ‘Can I help?’
‘You could show me in.’
Japy senses some petty infraction in this man’s past – his hands tremble as he drops the hosepipe on the ground.
‘Of course,’ the chauffeur says, overly keen to please, and leads him towards the great front door.
A tapestry which wants to be the Lady and the Unicorn hangs in the hallway, next to an ostentatious hat stand. Japy
fingers the tapestry as he passes: cheap Flemish wool, coarse in its modernity.
The chauffeur is sending anxious little glances back at him, hovering a few paces ahead, calling for the butler. Japy looks at the stairway, vast and curled.
A tall man appears at the end of the corridor.
Japy smiles. ‘M. Durand, please.’
The man isn’t used to being bossed about; all the more reason to do it, so when he starts to say, ‘Do you have an appointment?’ Japy changes the tenor of his smile, just lowers the temperature fractionally, and says, ‘No.’
‘I’m afraid it won’t be possible for you to see him today.’
No flies on this one: a past whiter than white, in a monastery possibly. The chauffeur is hanging back, on the edge of disappearing to safety.
‘Inspector Japy,’ Japy says, producing a crumpled visiting card.
The butler takes it; says: ‘Your cigarette.’
‘What?’
‘Is dropping ash on the carpet.’
The butler goes upstairs. A minute passes. Japy grinds his cigarette stub into an imitation High Flemish ashtray and stands back on his heels to wait.
Another minute; then a door closes upstairs, and André Durand is loping down the stairs to meet him.
‘Inspector Japy? Follow me,’ and leads him into a salon, where he makes sure to pull out the best chair for his guest; sits on the sofa opposite, running his hand through his hair. ‘So, what’s this about?’
Japy nods to a vase on the mantel. ‘Surely that’s First Dynasty?’
‘I believe so. It’s from my wife’s family.’
‘In my spare time, I am something of an antiques enthusiast.
One always recognises quality.’
‘A second string to your bow.’
‘Oh, but I don’t consider it a secondary pursuit. Are you familiar with the lectures given by Commander Darget on the topic of magnetic effluvia?’
Durand shifts his weight in his chair. ‘I’m afraid not.’
‘By which all objects emit – if you will – a sacred emanation, an ectoplasm indicating the history of their displacements? Imagine if a detective were able to interpret the secret signs of a gun used in a murder? Trace the path of the bullet, faintly glowing, through the air? Imagine what tales that vase would tell us if it could!’ He pauses, hand held dramatically in front of him, for just long enough to see Durand’s lip twitch at the corner. ‘No, M. Durand, my interest in objects is of the order of the professional.’
Durand’s whole body is relaxed, legs lolling apart at the knees; his voice, correspondingly, is a purr. ‘And has this effluvia led you to many convictions?’
‘Not yet, Monsieur,’ Japy says, ‘but one lives in hope. What can you tell me about a Mademoiselle Adèle Roux?’
‘Mlle Roux was my wife’s assistant, until a few days ago,’ he says.
‘It is only that Mlle Roux has made some allegations against you and your wife.’
‘What sort of allegations?’
‘She has been very badly hurt, and claims you are responsible.’