by Laura Lebow
“There’s also a ghost in this play,” Pascale said. “The ghost appears to Hamlet and tells him that he is his dead father. Have you ever seen a ghost?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t believe that ghosts exist.”
“Neither do I,” the boy said, “but Old Claude says they are real. Here’s what the ghost tells Hamlet.” He pitched his voice very low. “‘List, Hamlet, o, list’—that means ‘listen’—‘if thou didst ever thy dear father love, revenge his foul and most unnatural murder.’”
“Ah, murder!” I said. “Now this is getting interesting.”
“The ghost tells Hamlet that the uncle has murdered him by pouring poison in his ear! Have you ever killed anyone with poison?”
“No. I’ve never killed anyone.”
Pascale stopped and stared at me, disappointment in his young eyes. “Oh,” he said. “I thought for sure you would have killed many people, in your job.”
I shrugged an apology.
“Then the ghost disappears, crying ‘Murder most foul!’”
We passed by a row of ramshackle tenements and then by the Church of Saint-Médard. Large groups of beggars huddled around the church’s doors. At the side of the street a vendor was roasting chestnuts. Their rich aroma mingled with the more stringent scent of the starch factories along the Bièvre river just ahead of us.
“Do you want a bag of chestnuts?” I asked Pascale.
“No. I don’t eat that crap,” he said scornfully. “That’s for pigs and poor people. Hamlet doesn’t know what to do,” he continued. “He’s not sure what the ghost wants of him. Should he just accuse his uncle of the murder, or should he also kill him? Now, this is where this story gets very interesting. Some actors come to the castle. He asks them to put on a special play, and to add some lines to it that will remind the uncle of how he killed Hamlet’s father. ‘The play’s the thing wherein I’ll catch the conscience of the king,’ he says. Then everyone leaves and Hamlet makes a long speech. Old Claude says it is one of this Shakespeare fellow’s most famous speeches. ‘To be or not to be, that is the question,’ Hamlet says. That’s something I don’t understand. What is the question, exactly?”
“I have no idea. What does Old Claude say?”
“He says I’ll understand when I am older. Here’s what Hamlet says in this speech: ‘To be or not to be, that is the question: whether tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of’....um...” He rubbed his forehead. “Oh, yes, ‘the slings and arrows of courageous fortune, or...’ let me think a minute.” He pursed his lips. “Right! I have it. ‘To take arms against a sea of troubles, and by opposing end them?’”
“You memorized all of that?” I said. “I am impressed.”
Pascale blushed. “It’s not that hard for me.”
The stink of the river had grown very strong, almost overwhelming. I pass by the sewers between the Pont au Change and the Pont Notre-Dame almost every day, and have become inured to the smells they give off, but I don’t think I would ever get used to this if I lived down here. I picked up my pace. Pascale hurried to catch up with me.
“Hamlet also has a sweetheart,” he said. “But he’s trying to drive her away. I’m not sure why. ‘Get thee to a nunnery!’” Pascale had now enthusiastically assumed the mantle of the unfortunate Danish prince and was shouting at the imaginary young woman. A rat catcher, his empty traps slung over his shoulder, gawked at us as we walked by.
“Then Hamlet meets some gravediggers and talks to a skeleton,” Pascale said.
I laughed. “Does the skeleton talk back?”
“No. It’s not really a whole skeleton, it is just a skull.” He leaned over and scooped a rock from the side of the road, and holding it in one hand, struck a pose. “‘Alas, poor Yorick!’” he cried. He looked over at me. “That’s the skull’s name, Yorick. ‘I knew him, Horatio: a fellow of infinite chest, of most excellent fancy.’”
“That is very dramatic,” I observed. We walked silently by the Church of Saint-Martin.
“What happens to Hamlet?” I asked.
“I don’t know yet. Old Claude hasn’t gotten to the end of the play.” Pascale stopped at the Church of Saint-Marcel. A block ahead of us, I could see the royal tapestry factory and beyond it the city wall, with its guard and customs stations.
“This is it,” my young tragedian said. He pointed down a street to my left. “All the way to the end. It’s the building with the blue door.”
“All right,” I said, digging in my pocket for change. “Thank you for showing me.” I handed him three sous.
He looked at them and frowned. “We said four sous, remember?”
I cuffed him lightly on the head. “We said three. Now don’t let me catch you up at Notre-Dame again. Stay near the tavern with Old Claude.”
“I will,” he promised. He pocketed the coins and walked away. I watched as he headed back up the rue Mouffetard, waving his arms, reciting at the top of his voice. “‘To thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’” A few old drunks heard him coming and scurried away to the safety of the church portico.
I walked down the street and knocked on the blue door. I waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, harder. A minute later, the door opened to reveal a large, bald man in a threadbare suit. He looked me up and down. “What do you want?” he asked.
“I’d like to speak with Monsieur Poquelin,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t.”
He started to shut the door. “Monsieur Poquelin only sees people by appointment,” he said.
“Tell him I wish to speak to him about Gaspard Bricon,” I said, sticking my boot in the doorway.
“Everyone believes that they know a name that will get them inside without an appointment,” the man grumbled. “Wait there.” He kicked my foot away and slammed the door in my face.
I paced outside the door for a good five minutes, complaining to myself. If Poquelin thought that ignoring me would induce me to leave, he was mistaken. He had no idea how good I was at waiting.
After another five minutes the door opened and the large man beckoned me inside. “Wait here,” he said.
I stood by the door and looked around Poquelin’s headquarters. It was a large, smoke-filled room that at one time had been a tavern. Several men were gathered around a large bar on the right, drinking beer. A door in the back led to a hallway, where Poquelin and his chief confederates probably had their offices. To my left, by the only window in the room, a clerk sat at a table, writing. I didn’t see the ruffian who had harassed Hyacinthe.
A stocky man with the face of a frog approached me. “I am Monsieur Poquelin’s assistant,” he said. “What is it that you want?”
“My name is Paul Gastebois. I’m a confidential inquirer, investigating the murder of a song peddler named Gaspard Bricon,” I said.
There was no trace of recognition of Bricon’s name in the frog’s face.
“What has this murder to do with Monsieur Poquelin?”
“I’ve learned that the dead man sold smuggled goods on the Pont Neuf,” I said.
He peered at me. “Are you with the police?” he asked.
“No, I told you. I work privately,” I said.
“Well, monsieur, we know nothing of a Gaspard Bricon here.” He gestured toward the door.
“I would like to hear that from Monsieur Poquelin,” I said.
“Monsieur Poquelin is an extremely busy man,” the assistant said. “And I’ve already told you we know nothing about this dead song peddler.” He took my elbow and turned me toward the door.
I brushed his hand away. “I’m not leaving until I speak to him,” I said.
The clerk by the window looked up from his work and put down his pen. “It’s all right, Georges,” he called. “Let him come over.”
I gaped with surprise as the aide led me to the table. This was the Playwright? Poque
lin was of middle age, with deep-set eyes covered by spectacles, thick arched brows, a broad forehead, and thin wisps of dark hair on an egg-shaped head. He wore a plain woolen waistcoat over a crisp linen shirt, and dark breeches. He looked more like a clerk in a government office than one of the city’s most notorious criminals.
Poquelin stacked his papers into a neat pile and shoved it aside. “Have a seat. I apologize for the rude welcome and this mess. I’ve been busy with the accounts from last quarter all day.” He called to the bartender. The man hurried over with two tumblers of beer. I lowered myself onto the bench across from Poquelin and watched while he took a long sip of the brew.
He saw me watching and cocked a brow. “You are having trouble reconciling my appearance with my reputation, Monsieur Gastebois?” he asked. “You expected perhaps someone with an eyepatch and a beautiful woman on each arm?” He laughed. “I wish it were so, but as you can see, I am just another businessman in Paris.”
I opened my mouth to speak, but he continued before I could get out a word.
“Yes, just a businessman. The city is among the largest in the world, a huge market for all sorts of goods. Yet our government, in its wisdom, decided to give the right to sell tobacco and salt to the tax farmers.” The tax farmers were wealthy financiers who lent money to the government in exchange for the right to sell and tax certain goods. “I’m not opposed to taxes,” Poquelin continued. “But the money raised from them should benefit the people of France, not the rich men who loan money to the king.” He pointed out the window. “And to allow them to put up that wall out there, to inspect every bundle coming into the city, so they can collect their precious tax—why, it’s an insult to every Parisian.” He gazed at me. “You were born here in Paris, were you not?”
I nodded.
“I could tell by the way you speak. Which quarter?”
“The Marais,” I said.
“Ah. A lovely place. All of those old mansions. I was born down here, just beyond that damned new wall. I can’t even go out to visit my old grandmother without the customs agents patting me up and down on my way back. Since they put up that monstrosity, we can’t see the trees anymore. It’s all farmland out there. It was pleasant to be able to stroll just a few blocks to be out in the fresh air. But the king and his ministers care little about that. They only want to bleed Paris dry with their taxes. So my staff and I provide an alternative for the citizens of the city. We sell at a lower price, with no tax.”
I said nothing, just sipped at my beer.
“But I’m sure you didn’t come all the way here to listen to my complaints. Now, who is this man you are looking for?”
“His name is Gaspard Bricon,” I said. “He sold songs on the Pont Neuf. His body was found last weekend on the quai des Ormes. He had been beaten to death.”
Poquelin rubbed his chin. “Bricon. I don’t recognize the name. But I have so many people working for me all over the city.” He called to his aide. “Georges, would you look in the files for a man named Gaspard Bricon?” The frog-faced man disappeared down the back hallway.
“So you are a confidential inquirer?” Poquelin asked. “I’ve never heard of that job. What is it you do?”
“I’m the only one in the city that I know of,” I said. “I take on private cases, like this murder. I investigate a lot of guild rule violations. And I work for the police a bit, following foreign diplomats around town.”
He stared at me.
“But that’s all I do for the police,” I explained. “It pays well and allows me to take on other cases of interest.”
“You manage your business yourself?” he asked.
“Yes. I like using my wits and plotting my own course,” I said.
“And answering to no one?” He smiled.
“Yes, that is the greatest advantage.”
“Well, if you ever want a steady job, come back and talk to me. I could use a man of intelligence to manage my interests over on the Right Bank.”
The aide returned with a sheaf of papers. “I found him, monsieur,” he said, handing the pages to Poquelin. “He is a small seller on the Pont Neuf. He works with a partner, the vicomte de Breul.”
Poquelin grinned. “I love having aristocrats working for me,” he said.
“They owe us four hundred sous from last month’s sales,” Georges continued. “I sent someone over to talk to de Breul about it just the other day.”
Poquelin looked at me and stood. “There you have it, Monsieur Gastebois. We have thousands of small operators like Bricon and this de Breul. I’m sorry to hear that the song peddler is dead, but I have no idea what happened to him.”
He offered me his hand. I wanted to ask a question, but thought it unwise, so I merely took his hand and shook it.
“Think about my offer,” Poquelin said. “Georges, give the man some tobacco to take with him.”
“Oh, no thank you. I don’t use it,” I said. Even though I had found myself inexplicably liking Poquelin, I didn’t wish to be beholden to him.
He shrugged. “Fine. It was a pleasure meeting you.”
I thanked him and turned to go. But when I reached the door, something impelled me to ask my question. I looked over at the table, where he sat watching me.
“Let me guess,” he said. “You want to know if I had Bricon killed because he owed me money?”
“The thought crossed my mind,” I said.
He laughed and shook his head. “It would certainly make your job easier, would it not? But believe me, if I had had him killed, he would have not turned up in one piece on the quai des Ormes. His various body parts would still be washing up miles down the Seine.”
Back in my room, I fed the bird and put out some water for him, and then let him fly around while I rested a bit. When the light outside began to darken, I whistled for my little friend, who did not need to be coaxed into his cage. I changed into my surveillance clothes, tucked my knife into my boot, and went to the rue des Bons Enfants to wait for the Austrian diplomat.
I stood at the corner of the rue Saint-Honoré for about a half an hour, watching the lamplighters climb up and down their ladders. Now that the sun had set, the night was very cold, and my fingers were numb in my gloves when Cobenzl finally left his hotel and walked past me. I shadowed him a mere block, to the dance hall across from the Palais Royal.
After the diplomat had entered the building, I walked up to the entrance and studied the bill that announced the establishment’s coming attractions. I was relieved to see that tonight’s fare was a dance performance, not a fancy ball. Those could last into the wee hours of the morning. I was tired after my long walk to Saint-Marcel that afternoon. If I were lucky, Cobenzl would give me an early night.
I walked a few steps back to the square in front of the duc d’Orléans’s palace and found a niche next to a large pillar near the wide front gates of the great house. I had a clear view of the entrance to the dance hall across the square. I settled in for a cold wait.
I sat and played the usual games in my head that I use to entertain myself while waiting for a subject to come out of a building: listing the names of the kings of France, watching passersby and concocting stories about their lives, and enumerating the qualities of the perfect woman (petite, blond hair, green eyes, a lively wit and a shapely figure). Occasionally I stood and paced around the gate, stamping my feet to keep them warm. I did not see the tall watcher who had been following Cobenzl the last few evenings.
After an hour or so, there was a bustle of activity inside the courtyard of the palace. The gate swung open and a group of workmen carrying large logs and faggots of twigs and branches emerged. They deposited their loads on the ground in the middle of the square and began to stack the logs in the shape of a bonfire. When they were finished, four men wearing the livery of the duc d’Orléans came out, carrying burning torches. One by one they set the torches to the bonfire. The logs started to spark, and in a few minutes the fire was raging.
“A gift for th
e people of the nation, from the duc d’Orléans!” one of the men shouted. The four retreated to the courtyard and closed the gate.
Within ten minutes the square was crowded with people, as nearby residents emerged from their cold homes to enjoy the warmth of the fire. Gentlemen on their way into the cafés of the Palais Royal paused to warm their hands before heading to the garden entrance. Prostitutes gathered to solicit customers in comfort. I lingered in my spot, watching people and enjoying the duc’s generosity.
A half an hour later, I noticed a tall, dark-hooded figure loitering near the entrance to the dance hall. It was Cobenzl’s foreign watcher. Who was he, and why was he following the Austrian? He spoke German, so he must be either Austrian or Prussian. But why would the Austrians assign someone to tail one of their own diplomats? He must be a Prussian, then. I made a mental note to mention him in my next report to Favart. Cobenzl might be more than the rich man’s nephew that both my supervisor and I had assumed him to be. I clenched my jaw. I hated going to police court to report to the inspector for foreigners and listen to his snide remarks. Perhaps I would not attend this week, but instead write a brief report about the watcher and drop it at Favart’s office over the weekend.
I sat for another hour, enjoying the warmth of the bonfire and observing the foreign watcher, who hovered near the dance hall. When Cobenzl finally left the hall, I stood in my niche as first he, and then the watcher, proceeded out of the square in the direction of the rue des Bons Enfants. I followed them both back to the hotel, stood on the corner, and watched the diplomat enter the building. I stepped into the shadows as the watcher came by me. He headed down the rue Saint-Honoré, perhaps to meet the associate I had seen him with at the tavern in the rue des Moulins. I watched as he passed the Church of Saint-Roch and disappeared around the corner. Only then did I turn around and trudge home to my own bed.
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