Duval and the Italian Opera Singer

by Michele McGrath

  “You were told of my letter of authorisation, were you not?” I asked.

  He rose, came over and took the chair exactly opposite mine.

  “How can I help the Police?” He looked down his nose at me as if he had just detected a bad smell in the air.

  “You have a man in your employ by the name of Evrard.” I showed him my picture. “Is this him?” He looked at it closely, taking out a lorgnette on a long golden chain to do so.

  “The eyes are not quite right but it is definitely him.”

  “Is he on the premises?”

  “No. His mother was ill and he had to go home to see her.”

  Another sick mother, I thought, just like Ogier’s the groom’s. “Where does his mother live?”

  “Clichy, I believe, but I am not sure. Why do you want to speak to him? What has he done?”

  “Nothing as far as I know. He has some information which may help us with an enquiry. I would like to meet him as soon as possible. When did he leave?”

  “Three days ago. He should have been back long before this. Really, it is most inconvenient and annoying. He is a skilled employee and his clients have been asking for him. I am quite displeased. If you find him, tell him so, if you please.”

  I thanked Duplan for his information, asked him for Evrard’s address in Paris and hurried away. I don’t like peevish men and perfumed ones make me cringe. He was both.

  The address he gave me was in the Rue Caron in the Faubourg Sainte Antoine. Respectable enough, or so I thought until I saw the house. It was in poor repair. The passageway and stairs stank of stale urine. The concierge wanted to refuse me entrance until he saw Fouché’s letter and even afterwards, he was inclined to grumble. Eventually he led me up several staircases until I was almost at the roof. Then he stopped, put down his lantern in front of a door that creaked when he opened it with a piercing sound that made me wince.

  “There,” he said, holding out his hand as if he expected me to give him money. I ignored him and went inside the room. “That’s all for now. You can leave the lantern here.”

  “It’s my lantern so I’m taking it with me.” I laughed. I was younger and fitter so I could have easily wrested it from him, instead I said,

  “You are a brave man, I salute you.”

  “What do you mean?” His voice rose sharply.

  “Why, that you must have no sins and have committed no crimes, to challenge the authority of a police agent. Citizens are expected to help us. Those that don’t are likely to have their affairs looked into very closely indeed. Would you like that to happen to you, mon ami?”

  The man seemed to shrink into himself. Without another word he handed the lantern to me and scurried down the stairs as if the hounds of hell were after him.

  I grinned and began to search the room. It was a miserable dwelling, small and cramped. Because it was just under the roof, the space was unbearably hot, even though the day was only mild. In winter it must have been freezing. There was no fire, only a small stove, the sort that soldiers use in camp, to heat water and food. It was stone cold when I touched it. The water and the waste buckets were empty and dry, so Evrard had not been here for some time. Looking around the dismal apartment, I could not blame him. There were a few pieces of furniture and a frowsy bed. Some clothes hung on pegs driven into the wall. They were better garments than you would expect to find in such a place and relatively clean, smelling of perfume rather than stale dirt. The seemed at odds with the rest of Evrard’s possessions and I was puzzled until I remembered his profession. A dirty or slovenly man would not have lasted a day in Duplan’s refined atmosphere.

  There was no sign that the apartment had been left hurriedly. Certainly it was untidy, but those things Evrard needed for his occupation were still in place. I continued my search unsuccessfully. There were a few papers but nothing of interest. Evrard obviously ate his meals and made his toilette elsewhere. Local taverns and one of the bateaux-lavoirs were my guesses. He would have to wash and have his clothes laundered, which necessity probably annoyed him greatly, although bathing only costs a few sous. I closed the door and left, calling to the concierge that he could retrieve his lantern and lock up again when he was ready.

  I spent some time going into the local taverns. In three of the nearest four, I found out very little. Evrard was known by sight but that was all. The fourth was the one which had obviously enjoyed his patronage. The innkeeper recognised him by both his picture and his name, but told me that he had not seen him for a few days. He was a regular customer, eating his meals at the tavern and drinking there whenever he had sufficient money in his pocket. The innkeeper wondered why he had not been around. I told him the story about the sick mother, which I disbelieved, but it had a surprising effect on the man.

  “I never thought of that,” he said. “Evrard talks about her occasionally.”

  “Does he? Do you have any idea where she lives?”

  “Outside the city. Clichy?”

  “Did he tell you that?” I asked sharply.

  “Possibly, I can’t remember. The name jumped into my head.”

  “Anywhere I could find out more about him?”

  “He goes to Nanette’s when he can afford it.” I nodded, remembering the place. I had walked past it on the way to the tavern and some of the girls had made me interesting offers.

  “Does he use any of the bateaux-lavoirs?”

  The man gave a huge guffaw. “Only when he’s too rank to go to work. He’s not a regular if that’s what you mean, for all he works as a coiffeur. He doesn’t throw his cash around on unnecessary washing.”

  “Does he have any friends who might know where he is?”

  “He talks to a couple of our other clients, but I wouldn’t call them friends. If you want to find him, your best bet is to talk to his girl at Nanette’s, her name’s Manon. He daydreams about marrying her some day and keeping her favours all for himself. He said so when he was pissed.”

  I felt my eyebrows rising. “Did he indeed? That would cost him a lot of money.”

  “Une chimère, no more. He’ll never get enough and she probably wouldn’t have him even if he did.”

  I thanked the man and made my way to Nanette’s. A necessity of course, but one I had no intention of telling Eugénie about when I got home. No woman likes her husband visiting a brothel even for the most innocent of reasons. Who knows what might happen in such a place?

  Nanette greeted me with enthusiasm. She was well past her youth and beauty, with powder on her cheeks, ink black brows and reddened lips. Her clothes were elegant, if a trifle worn, so the house must have been profitable. I saw only glimpses of her girls, with bare backs and floating draperies that did nothing to hide the shape of their bodies. When I showed Nanette my letter and told her I wanted a word with Manon, her whole demeanour changed. From smiling compliance with anything I fancied in the way of entertainment, she frowned and snarled,

  “What has that bitch been up to now?”

  The change in her tone took me aback. “Nothing as far as I know,” I spluttered. “She may have information about a man called Evrard.”

  “Which one?”

  “The hairdresser. Are there more than one?”

  “Charles is a hairdresser. His brother, Jacques works at Les Halles. Both of them come here but Manon is Charles’ favourite. He always asks for her.”

  “Can I see her please?”

  “She’s working.” Nanette shrugged and would have turned away.

  “At once.”

  At this, she stopped and looked shocked. I flourished Fouché’s letter under her nose and repeated, “At once!”

  “Monsieur, I can’t.” She sounded appalled. “How could you possibly ask such a thing of me? Just think — they might be at the point of la petite mort. Quelle horreur! Please have patience and wait for them to finish. I will send for her immediately her client leaves.”

  I hesitated and she suddenly smiled, showing teeth stained yellow. “You wou
ld not like it to happen to you, would you, Monsieur? This client is usually quick enough. Will you drink a glass of wine while you wait? Or perhaps one of my girls can entertain you?”

  I sighed but was forced to grin. Nanette had beaten me and she knew it. What true Frenchman would interrupt la petite mort?

  “Just the wine please,” I said.

  I admit to curiosity about the women who worked there, but Eugénie would never forgive me if I indulged myself. So I perched on a tattered velvet couch that must have belonged to a rich man once. I sipped my wine and listened to the sounds around me. The odd running footsteps, a smothered laugh or two, someone plucking the strings of a musical instrument. Doors opened and closed, soft voices chattered and thumps over my head came from the couple in the room above. I tried to picture what was going on and I became most uncomfortable as a result. My clothes seemed to be too hot and my imagination ran riot. After all, I am no saint to listen to such things and remain unmoved. Then the door opened and two giggling girls burst in. They obviously had no idea I was there, but neither of them made any attempt to cover up their charms when they saw me. I had never believed that eyes could bulge, but I think mine did at that moment. My breeches suddenly felt very tight indeed. One of them gave a little cry of surprise, the other only grinned. They immediately sat down on the sofa beside me and began to stroke my arms and my hair. I rose hurriedly, feeling breathless.

  “Are either of you Manon?” I asked and I could hear my words trembling.

  “What do you want her for? We’re far better than she is.”

  “Ladies, stop!” I held up my hands and backed away. “I’m a police agent, here on an important case. I need to speak to Manon, no one else, Time enough for pleasure later.”

  “Are you certain?” the blond girl teased in a saucy voice. “We could make you very happy indeed right now.”

  “I’m sure you can, but I have work to do which cannot wait.”

  “Oh very well then.” She pouted.

  “You’ll come back?” the darker one asked.

  “I’ll try,” I lied.

  “Ask for Simone and Fliss, when you do. Nanette will give you a special rate because you are so handsome.” She stroked the side of my face. Then they laughed and went out, leaving me hoping that they would not return. My self-control was not that good and both of them were attractive. I was heartily glad when, at last, the object of my search appeared.

  Chapter 8

  Manon was young, certainly no more than twenty. Dishevelled black hair framed an oval face with huge dark eyes. She was frowning. She wore a long robe which she clutched at the front and from which one white shoulder escaped. It was quite obvious that she had nothing on underneath and I found myself becoming even hotter. She was flushed and she still smelt of the recently completed sexual act.

  “You wished to see me, Monsieur?” she asked and I heard anxiety in her voice. Everyone feels guilty, of course, when a police agent asks for them. I sometimes do so myself and I should know better.

  “Come and sit down please, Mademoiselle. I need to ask you some questions about a man called Evrard.”

  “Oh, Monsieur Charles.” No mention of his brother, I noticed. The frown had vanished as she sat down in a chair facing me, pulling her robe around her, but not before I had caught sight of most of her shapely right leg.

  “Yes, Monsieur Charles.” I unrolled my picture. “Is this him?”

  She clapped her hands allowing the gown to slip and my eyes instinctively flew to her breasts, which had just been revealed. “Oh, how clever. It is just like him. Where did you get this?” I had to tear my eyes away from her before I answered.

  “A friend drew it for me.”

  “May I keep it, Monsieur, please? I want to very much.”

  “I need it at the moment but perhaps later. You are fond of him, this Monsieur Charles?”

  “Indeed, Monsieur, he is very kind to me.” She smiled. “He says he wants to marry me.” There was a sense of wonder in her voice.

  “Why should he not?” I smiled back at her. “You are very pretty. But tell me where can I find him? He is not at his apartment.”

  “He told me on Sunday that he had to go away for a few days. Doing some rich lady’s hair I suppose. She lives the country. I did not attend particularly.”

  “Clichy?”

  She shook her head. “No, that was not the name. It was…” She rubbed her forehead. “… Something like… It began with a ... No I cannot remember, peste!”

  “Is there anyone else who would know?”

  “Why do you want him, Monsieur? Has he done something wrong?”

  “He has some information, that is all. He was in the street when something happened. No need for you to worry about it.” I hated to lie to her but I knew that if I told her the truth she would not say anything more. If she was lying about knowing his whereabouts, she might very well warn him to disappear. I did not want to take the chance.

  “Is there someone else who could tell me more?” I persisted.

  “Well, Monsieur Charles has a brother called Jacques. If anyone would know, it would be him.” She had wrinkled up her nose as she said the name. I had the distinct impression that she did not like this Jacques.

  “Thank you. Where does Jacques Evrard live?”

  “I went there once with Monsieur Charles. Monsieur Jacques is a porter at Les Halles and he lives near there on the Rue Berger.”

  She gave me Jacques’ address. Strangely enough, he lived in the same area where Fournier and his wife Berthe had an apartment. I had visited them often enough to know the district but I had never had a reason to go to any of the houses on the Rue Berger before.

  I thanked Manon and pressed a coin into her hand to pay for her time. She saw me to the door at my request, since I had no wish to encounter her colleagues or Nanette on the way out. I was grateful to escape from the place relatively unscathed. Manon seemed like a nice girl, so I understood Evrard’s interest in her. She had a freshness rare in such places and I wondered how long she had worked there. Not very long, I guessed.

  Where next? I was tempted to go first to the Rose in case Lefebvre or Fournier had found any more information. Although I had identified the abductor, I had no idea where he was or where he had taken Carla and Marco. On the other hand, I was loath to meet my friends empty handed, so I turned in the direction of Les Halles and hailed the first hackney that passed in the street.

  It was the wrong time of day to call at Jacques Evrard’s lodgings. He should be working, not at home. The great market of Paris is a wonder to behold. Just about any type of food is available there, from huge sides of beef to fresh shellfish and strange vegetables. It is always busiest in the mornings and was now winding down, although there were still a lot of people milling around. I went into the nearest tavern and asked for Jacques Evrard. He must possess some sort of reputation because the proprietor had no difficulty in telling me that he worked for one of the fishmongers.

  There is no mistaking the fish stalls at Les Halles. The smell is enough to direct you. Even a blind man would be able to find his way. Most of the catch is salted, of course, and comes in barrels from the sea coast. Fish from nearby lakes and streams is fresh. Little remained on the slabs. It had been snapped up by buyers from the restaurants and the great houses or by thrifty housewives who could afford to feed their families well. A few of the poorer people idled nearby, ready to perform simple tasks or waiting for the scraps that would be thrown out when they could no longer be sold. The stallholders were closing down and swilling out their premises. I approached the first man I saw. He shrugged and pointed to a black haired workman who was trying to force down the top of one of the barrels.

  “Jacques Evrard?” I went up to him and asked.

  “Who wants to know?” He turned and his eyes were suspicious. He had a look of his brother but they would never be mistaken for each other if Charles’ picture was correct.

  “My name’s Duval. I work for t
he Police.”

  He straightened and looked me in the eye. “What’s this about? I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I’m looking for your brother, Charles.”

  “Haven’t seen him. Can’t help you.” He shrugged.

  “That’s a pity. If you could, it would save me from having to arrest you.”

  “For what?”

  “Obstructing a police enquiry.” As I spoke the words he moved. I caught the flash of movement an instant before the lid of the barrel sailed towards my face. I threw myself aside as it flew past me. Then he was off, racing along the aisles, dodging the people, with a turn of speed I did not expect in the tarred shoes he wore. I pelted after him, but my lame leg is no help in situations like these. Fortunately Les Halles is a place much frequented by pickpockets, so there are always police around watching what was going on. I screamed out,

  “Police! Stop that man.” I may not be able to run as fast as I once did, but the army taught me how to roar and I have never forgotten how to do so. Three men moved to intercept Evrard. One stuck out his leg to trip him and he measured his length on the slippery sets. The impact drove the wind out of his lungs, so it was easy for us to haul him to his feet and bind his hands behind him.

  “Thanks,” I muttered to my helpers. “I’ll return the favour some day soon.”

  Between us we bundled Evrard into a hack and one of the other police agents followed me inside. The journey to the Ministry did not take long, but Evrard did not say a word. In fact he did not break his silence until he had been manhandled down into the depths of the building where there are some small cells. We hold people there before they are transferred to the prisons. Evrard was pushed onto a wooden chair and his hands were tied to the arms. His face had gone white where he was not smeared with blood from his fall onto the cobblestones. I don’t know what he believed was going to happen to him but, personally, I have no taste for or skill in torture. I usually find that fear of the consequences is enough to loosen most tongues. Just to be safe though, I despatched one of the messengers to bring Fournier to the cell. I told the lad that if Fournier wasn’t at the bureau, he would be at the Rose.