by Claude Izner
Père Moscou, hurrying to escape their jibes, plunged unthinkingly into the haven of peace that Rue Archive seemed to offer. A hundred yards further on, he stopped, about to turn back and have the ring valued by the jewellers standing in a group outside the pawnshop with the dealers in pawnshop tickets. No, I can just ask Maman Briscot. She knows the right places to go, he decided.
Now he was passing through a quieter district. Behind the old façades were vast courtyards populated by toy-makers, studios and workshops making and selling bronze items. He passed between the town hall of the third arrondissement and Square du Temple where the statue of Béranger holding a closed book stared at him mockingly. The sight of the lime tree beside which, it was said, Louis XVI had made his son recite his lessons, inspired Moscou to make an emotional tribute to ‘the conqueror of kings’. In a hoarse voice, he intoned:
Napoleon is emperor,
His brav’ry inspires us all!
He crossed Temple Market, the first floor of which was occupied by the famous ‘Carreau du Temple’ where all the rags that couldn’t be sold on the ground floor were displayed. The rest of the market was spread over several pavilions where objects cast off by the rich were sold as new. Weary and in a hurry to reach his goal, Père Moscou staggered about amongst the stalls of shoes and frock coats, the mountains of petticoats and curtains and the sea of carpets, old decorations and quilts. The bazaar was giving him vertigo, reminding him of his devastated bivouac. Picturing the feathers littering the floor, he was appalled all over again.
They’re going to kill me, and I can’t go to the cops. The cops! Why not? I’ll be housed and fed at the expense of the State, in the warmth, out of reach of Grouchy…
‘I don’t want that!’ he barked at a young milliner who was offering him a shabby bowler hat.
‘I’ll let you have it for nothing at all, cross my heart and hope to die! You’ll be handsome as a king!’
‘Out of my way, Josephine!’
Finally he escaped the market and reached Rue de la Corderie, a little street that was narrow at either end and opened out in the middle in a triangle. Maman Briscot had a bar there and she would be able to advise him about the ring.
After asking for directions, Victor eventually hunted down the Bureau of Missing Persons in the heart of the labyrinth of the police headquarters, a department run by a certain Jules Bordenave. He explained what he wanted to a young functionary, whose hollow eyes and suppressed yawns suggested immense fatigue.
‘I’ve made a note, Madame Odette de Valois. Are you family?’
‘Er…no.’
‘An in-law?’
Victor shook his head. The pen-pusher sighed.
‘What exactly are you to this woman?’
‘A friend.’
‘A friend or a lover?’ asked the young man, in a tired fashion.
‘I’m a friend and I’m very worried about her; she hasn’t been home since last Friday.’
‘Is she married?’
‘Yes, at least she’s not married any more – she’s a widow.’
‘I see,’ said the functionary, looking as if he might just keel over himself. ‘When did her husband die?’
‘In November or December; I can’t remember. He died of yellow fever.’
‘I see, I see, the canal…’ grunted the young man, dipping his pen-holder in an inkwell and amusing himself by creating ripples of ink. ‘And had he worked for the canal long?’
‘Since September 1888. But what’s that to do…?’
‘If I understand correctly, this lady…de Valois has lived alone since September 1888?’
‘I’ve just told you so!’ exploded Victor, whose patience was running out.
‘My dear Monsieur,’ retorted the functionary, tapping his pen dry, ‘I don’t doubt your good intentions, but you must see that we cannot set in train a search simply at the request of a friend. In a republic, everyone is free to come and go as they please. This lady has probably gone on a trip without telling you. These things happen all the time.’
Clearly pleased with his line of argument, the young man bent over a pile of papers.
‘You’re refusing to open an inquiry?’
‘I repeat, dear Monsieur, you are neither her husband nor a member of her family. Do you know that in any one year we receive forty to fifty thousand requests for searches from families? Mostly from the provinces, because the majority of provincials who disappear take refuge here in Paris. We are completely snowed under…’
‘You don’t look as if you’re doing anything at all! Goodbye, Monsieur, and thank you for nothing!’ shouted Victor, banging the door angrily on his way out.
He only calmed down when he reached Passerelle des Arts. At Place de L’Institut, he bought the papers and leafed through them, searching for a mention of Denise’s death. Nothing.
He went up to his apartment by the outside staircase. Tasha, dressed and ready to leave, was finishing a cup of coffee. She didn’t ask any questions, letting him trip himself up with his own lies.
‘You were fast asleep and I didn’t want to wake you. I remembered that I had promised to go and see a collection of books at Quai Saint-Michel, at Père Didier’s stall. He’s a secondhand bookseller who specialises in the sale of posters, but from time to time he has old books…’
‘And did you make a good purchase?’
‘Actually, I didn’t, they were all too damaged, but Père Didier invited me to Café des Cadrans, and there I bumped into some bookseller friends, so…’
‘All’s explained then. Well, I have to show some sketches to my editor. Will you be here this afternoon?’
‘Yes, I should be.’
She went up to him, stood on tiptoe to smooth back a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead and kissed him. ‘Must run, see you later.’
After she had run down the staircase, Victor went down to the bookshop. Joseph was arranging the complete works of Restif de la Bretonne. ‘These will never sell,’ he said to Victor in a worried voice.
Victor made no mention of his recent absence, nor did he say anything about Denise. He scanned the shelves, took down a book, then another, took a sudden interest in a newly displayed Diderot, ran his finger over the bust of Molière and seemed satisfied that there was not a trace of dust there. After about ten minutes, he could stand it no longer and announced abruptly to Joseph: ‘I’ll be back in an hour. I’ve an errand to run.’
‘All right, boss.’
The door bell had only just sounded when Tasha appeared from the back of the shop. ‘Hurry, and keep out of sight.’
‘What if he takes a cab?’
‘You’ll manage. Just don’t lose him; all that matters to me is that nothing happens to him. Do you have money?’
‘Don’t fret, you can count on me. I won’t let you down.’
Joseph shoved a cap on his mop of hair and hurried into the street after Victor, who was heading for the Seine.
Victor stood studying a building intently. Its gaping windows stood out clearly against the sky. The basement and the first storey were each composed of nineteen very tall arcades surrounded by Greek columns. The second floor formed an attic interspersed with nineteen bays. Two wings at the front jutted out on either side of the façade. The Cour des Comptes, which had once incorporated the Ministère du Commerce and of Travaux Publique would, in its current state, appeal to lovers of Ancient Greece: classical design and ruins invaded by vegetation. But to Victor, who was steeped in English culture, its sinister aspect invoked one of the haunted houses so beloved of Ann Radcliffe. The stone, reddened and blackened by the fire, the collapsed roof, the windows devoid of glass and a peculiar detail, the remains of a blind, groaning in the wind across one of the window frames, all conspired to create a fantastical and desolate picture.
‘Bluebeard’s Castle,’ he said as he turned in the direction of Rue de Lille. He rang the concierge’s bell. She half-opened the door and peered at him suspiciously, only consenting to ope
n the door wide after she had read his visiting card. ‘Please excuse the mess, I was just about to tidy up.’
‘I’m looking for an old man with white hair. I wanted to thank him for putting flowers on my wife’s grave at Père-Lachaise cemetery.’
‘Ah, Père Moscou. I haven’t seen him for ever such a while. He must be on a bender somewhere, but he’ll come to his senses and come back – I know him.’
‘If you show me where he lives, I’ll leave him a tip.’
‘Very sorry, Monsieur, I can’t do that; he would be angry with me. Only last Sunday someone ransacked his room. Poor thing! He was in such a state when he discovered, he called me to help him. What a scene! More frightening than the sight of The Raft of the Medusa at the Louvre. A real shambles. His belongings, I tell you, they were strewn about everywhere, as if a whirlwind had blown through. The worst thing was the way he stared at everything, fixedly, as if he’d just seen a ghost, yes really as if he’d seen a ghost, though with what he does for a living, you’d think…But there was nothing supernatural about that business; I’d stake my life on it. I have to tell you that louts sometimes come to mess about with girls in the undergrowth, it’s a real virgin’s paradise back there, then they come here and amuse themselves by creating mayhem…I have reported it to the police, but I might as well not have bothered – they’ve bigger fish to fry. I’d keep your tip if I were you, otherwise he’ll just drink it.’
She was about to shut the door when she hesitated. ‘Wait! I’ve just remembered. It’s Wednesday today – I know where you’ll find him, if you still want to thank him. Today’s his day for going to Carreau du Temple. He forages about there, buying things and selling them again, and meeting his pals. He usually goes to Maman Briscot’s, on Rue de la Corderie, for some soup. Briscot’s Fine Fare is written on the front. You could see if he’s there.’
To Joseph’s great displeasure, Victor hailed a cab on Quai d’Orsay.
Great, what on earth am I going to do now? Mademoiselle Tasha is going to be furious. Well, I won’t shadow him any more, but I’ll go and take a look round that pile of bricks. Lord love me, it’s got more holes in it than a Gruyère cheese!
The shops were narrow and too dark for the secondhand dealers to show off the old togs to their best advantage, so they displayed them on boards supported by trestles, or sometimes even out on the pavement of Rue de la Corderie. Père Moscou had just spent some time haggling with a shopkeeper who was selling tattered military uniforms, rusted swords and old clothes he claimed had been worn by the Empress Eugénie, for a badly dented bugle. Pleased that he had driven a hard bargain, Père Moscou stowed the instrument in one of his pockets and went off to Maman Briscot’s bar, which stood beside a shed where you could rent handcarts for five sous an hour.
Inside, the bar was low-ceilinged, very smoky and crammed with tables and benches. At some tables workmen played cards or battled over dominoes, whilst at others poor wretches were catching forty winks. An enormous cast-iron stove breathed its burning fumes over the customers busy tucking into onion soup, the house speciality. Maman Briscot, a well-endowed woman with frizzy grey hair who reigned supreme over this establishment, was circulating with a tray of steaming bowls.
She greeted Père Moscou with a booming, ‘Hello there, Père-Lachaise! Come and sit down next to the fire. Do you want some soup?’
Without giving him the chance to reply, she set a bowl down in front of him. ‘You brought some bread, I hope? You know I don’t provide it here.’
‘I can do without. What I need is a quarter-pint of red wine.’
‘Right away, General.’
After gobbling the wine and the soup, Père Moscou drifted into a light doze and gave a start when the landlady shook him by the shoulder. ‘Come on, Père-Lachaise, time to pay up and move on; everyone else has left.’
‘I need your expert advice, my dear. I have a ring, a family heirloom that I want to flog…’
‘Show me.’
She held the ring up to the light. ‘I like it. Where did you pilfer this from, you old scoundrel?’
‘It was left to me by a deceased relative.’
‘Of course it was. I’ll make you a proposition, something better than money. You can eat here, free, for a month. How about that?’
Victor, watching through the bar window, observed their interminable discussion, by the end of which, one month had become three. Relieved to have tracked down Père Moscou, he hid in the shed. He had to wait half an hour before the old man left the tavern, at precisely the moment Joseph leapt from a cab at the other end of the street.
Unaware that he was being watched, Père Moscou made his way back towards Carreau du Temple, followed at a distance by Victor, who was in turn being tailed by Joseph. In Pavillon Forêt-Noire, neither man noticed the rag merchants who tried to tempt them by calling out, ‘I have a beautiful greatcoat! Look, Monsieur, this would look superb on you!’
Invigorated by his meal, Père Moscou greeted acquaintances as he passed and seemed to be looking for someone. He squeezed his way through a crowd grouped around a hawker and charged at a policeman. Planting himself in front of him, he began to cough violently, jabbering unintelligible words. Then he spotted a second policeman and repeated his coughing fit. Frozen to the spot in front of a display of chandeliers, Victor did not notice Joseph who was watching the whole scene from behind a mountain of mattresses. The two guardians of the peace had just called on an army officer to come to the rescue, when Victor, with his hat pulled well over his eyes, cautiously approached the quartet.
‘What’s going on?’ asked the officer.
‘What’s going on is that this individual coughed right in my face, boss. I asked him what was wrong and he shouted, “I’m not talking to you!” Then he started on my colleague.’
‘I could see straight away that this fellow was trouble,’ his colleague went on. ‘I went over to him and he practically spat on me. I ordered him to behave himself and he yelled, “Dirty dog, are you blind? Can’t you see that I’m ill?”’
The officer scrutinised Père Moscou. ‘Do you have anything to say in your defence?’
‘Excuse me, Colonel, when you have lungs as congested as mine you just have to spit sometimes!’
‘Is that sufficient reason to splutter your miasma over the forces of order?’
‘With respect, Captain, the cough comes over me without warning. I can’t swallow it!’
‘But you could cover your mouth with your hand! What’s more, you called the officers pigs, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘Me, Major? As the Emperor is my witness, I never did that! I just said that I’m as sick as dog, there is a difference!’
‘The Emperor, eh? You’re making matters worse. Off to the police station with you. We’ll sort your cough out for you.’
As Père Moscou appealed to the crowd, Victor just had time to dive for cover behind a pile of embroidered robes. ‘See how unfairly they treat me? It’s all Grouchy’s fault! It was him who said “Dog, dirty dog!” and then he scarpered and I got the blame!’
Once he was safely in the hands of the coppers, he affected a tearful expression, which aroused the indignation of the bystanders. ‘Poor man, he’s definitely not right in the head and they’re still arresting him – it’s shameful. It’s not his fault he has the flu,’ said one stallholder.
There were whistles and boos and insults were hurled. Disconcerted, Joseph watched Victor mingle with the crowd thronging around Père Moscou. He remembered Monsieur Lecoq’s credo: ‘If you withdraw, you gain much more when you emerge from the shadows.’ Deciding to apply this rule immediately, he slipped away.
Victor waited until the crowd of onlookers had dispersed before entering the police station. He made enquiries of an orderly who was wearing the sort of uniform usually reserved for the elderly.
‘Don’t worry about him; a night in the cells will calm him down. In any case, in his condition and with the weather we’re expecting, he’s better o
ff in the warmth.’
Victor went back out, groaning inwardly, promising himself that he would come and fetch the old man at dawn. The sky was now leaden and small white dots were accumulating on the dirty pavements. He tucked his cane under his arm, thrust his hands into his pockets and went off, watched at a distance by a schoolboy lurking in a doorway.
‘Terrible weather,’ grumbled Joseph, wiping his shoes on the mat in front of Molière’s bust.
‘You lost him!’ cried Tasha.
‘He nearly saw me, so I thought it best to leave him to it, but if you insist, I’ll go back…’ retorted Joseph, piqued.
He turned as if to serve two young dandies who were leafing through the new books, but she caught him by the sleeve. ‘Don’t be cross, my little moujik. I’m really worried – please tell me what happened.’
Joseph did so, giving Tasha a blow-by-blow account. ‘Don’t worry, the boss isn’t running any risks, and besides I’m there to protect him.’
‘Thank you, Jojo, I know I can count on you. Remind him that we’re meeting tonight at the Soleil d’Or.
She hurried away. When the two dandies had paid for Modern Masks by Félicien Champsaur, Joseph settled himself on his stool, pulled Le Siècle from his pocket and looked to see if there was anything new about Denise. He found nothing, but one article caught his attention.
The St Nazaire Corpse
Until recently, little progress had been made on the case of the unknown corpse of St Nazaire and the legendary reputation of Messieurs Goron and Lecacheur seemed set to be tarnished. But the day before yesterday, Inspector Lecacheur spotted a short report in Quotidien de l’Ouest of a wallet found by some dockers wedged behind a container in the hold of the cargo ship Goéland. The wallet, in very bad condition, contained papers that have been sent to the police for analysis.