The Assassin in the Marais

by Claude Izner

  ‘Yes. Just past the Dumathrat crossroads. You’re after him, are you? Have a quick drink with us and I’ll take you over there,’ said the father. ‘Are you a wholesaler?’

  ‘Uh, yes,’ replied Joseph.

  ‘Perhaps we can do some business together. I have a pile of old boots from an army depot, only left feet – any use to you?

  ‘I’d have to see them.’

  The man freed up a chair by chasing away one of the brats with a flick of his hand while the mother collected the plates. Much to Joseph’s consternation, three glasses were filled with red wine. He had no head for alcohol.

  ‘Your health, M’sieur, and to you Estève. Hey! Not so fast, it kills the bouquet,’ scolded Raymond.

  ‘Bah! It still perks me up on its way down.’

  The brothers, both with red thatches of hair, tossed back their wine and stared at Joseph, who was reluctant to swallow what to him was paint stripper.

  ‘Come on, lad, drink – it’ll warm your cockles.’

  Joseph downed the liquid in one, just as he had gulped down the cod-liver oil his mother had forced him to take as a boy. A purple veil descended between him and the two fellows, but when it cleared he felt filled with renewed vigour. He stood up. The room swayed and he had to sit down again.

  ‘You’re rag-and-bone men?’ he asked, hoping to win himself a reprieve.

  ‘No, lad, you see before you a mason. I can’t keep count of the shacks I’ve built. Estève came to lend a hand. I’m overworked; I have to do everything around here. Not only am I the vulture who collects all the rents, but I’m also notary, lawyer and justice of the peace. When trouble flares, it’s me who has to sort it out and it’s me who distributes the legacies when someone dies. I divvy up the scrap iron for those that’ll sell them on to the founder; the old bones go to those who deal with the makers of glue, manure or buttons; and the lint is coveted by the paper makers so I hand it out accordingly!’

  Estève, fired up by the alcohol, began to declaim:

  ‘In the kingdom of the gaff

  The rag-and-bone man rules alone

  In the kingdom of rubbish

  The rag and bone man rules supreme

  O knight of the lamp

  O knight of the gaff’

  ‘Belt up!’ Raymond bellowed. ‘Finish your drink. We’re going with the man. I’m going to drag the rent out of that gypsy.’

  They crossed Cité Doré. Joseph imagined that he was venturing into a village of huts in the depths of the unexplored African bush. Was that an elephant trumpeting in the distance, near the Gare d’Orléans? Perhaps it was just the harrowing cry of the locomotives. At the end of Passage Doré, they stopped before a cabin with one miniscule window.

  ‘Here you go – Père Diélette’s palace. We’ll be over there.’

  Joseph knocked, but in vain; no one opened the door to him. Perhaps the rag-and-bone man was asleep. Shouting broke out behind him. He swung round. The two brothers were preparing to demolish the door of one of the wretched little houses, paying no heed to the tears and imprecations poured out by a woman wrapped in pitiful rags.

  ‘It’s so cold. I’ll die!’

  ‘I warned you, old witch. If you haven’t coughed up by tomorrow, we’ll take the roof off and if that doesn’t make you pay, we’ll set your shack on fire!’

  ‘Vultures!’

  Falling to her knees, the woman tried to cling to Raymond’s legs. He freed himself vigorously, and she toppled into a puddle. Outraged, Joseph hurried over to help the woman to her feet.

  ‘You should be ashamed!’ he cried.

  ‘The world’s gone mad! You hear that, Estève? Now it’s the debtors who’re the victims!’

  ‘How much does this unfortunate woman owe you?’

  ‘Two francs fifty.’

  Joseph dug in his pocket, gathered up his change and shoved it furiously at the redhead.

  As the brothers were leaving, the woman dissolved into profuse thanks and invited her saviour in for a drink.

  She lit an oil lamp, revealing an angular face framed by greying hair. Her hut was six feet square and furnished with crates.

  ‘Have a seat and make yourself at home, M’sieur. Fancy a homemade ratafia? Sugar and potato liquor. Chin-chin!’

  Against his better judgement, Joseph took a sip of the vinegary alcohol and put his glass down. The woman sighed.

  ‘I like it here so much. I look out on the countryside — in summer it’s full of poppies. Yes indeed, it’s a haven, so it is … This week’s been dreadful, not a single client. It would have killed me to have to sleep in the open, especially after today’s troubles.’

  ‘Uh … What is it you do?’ asked Joseph, backing towards his escape route.

  ‘Tarot cards, the lines on your hand, anything to do with the future! I can see things for other people, but when it comes to me, darned if I’m not blind. Stupid, isn’t it? I didn’t even introduce myself: Coralie Blinde.’

  ‘Do you know Léonard Diélette?’

  She threw him a sidelong look.

  ‘He didn’t come home. Neither did his kid. I fed Clampin, that’s his donkey. I think they went off tearing down posters.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘There have been elections. After the polls, you’re allowed to collect the posters stuck up on the railings and tree trunks. Most of the rag-and-bone men want the radical-socialist-irreconcilable candidate. When you’re the lowest of the low, you just want to be a thorn in the side of the bigwigs who govern. But, when it comes to collecting the posters, you don’t care what colour they are; in fact the white ones sell better than the red ones.’

  Disconcerted, Joseph went to leave, but Coralie grabbed him by the sleeve.

  ‘Sibylla can read your hand like an open book. There’s no better gift I can give you than a vision of the future.’

  Joseph recoiled. For a while now he had been suspicious of clairvoyants.

  ‘Don’t you worry! Give us your left hand, the one nearest your heart. Let’s see, first your life line … very strong! You’ll live to see the first half of the twentieth century! Oh yes, and the head line shows that you’re intelligent, skilled, hard-working and stubborn. You will achieve your goals, cos your fate line goes straight up to the mount of Saturn … You’re blessed by Venus, cos the heart line is good, very good. You’ll be lucky in love, no matter that you’re a hunchback.’

  ‘You can see that?’

  ‘Engraved on your palm.’

  ‘What about the immediate future?’

  A look of fear crossed Coralie Blinde’s face so fleetingly that Joseph did not notice.

  ‘I see … I see … a train. Whistling and bellowing … its red eye winking in the gloom … I see … a man going on a long journey … Light, light, light as a feather, he flies over the rails … I see … I see … I can’t see any more.’

  Gee! I hope she doesn’t mean I’m going right now — the Bosses wouldn’t be happy; I’m indispensable. But when I’m a famous writer I might take a round-the-world tour with Iris like Phileas Fogg. Why not?

  Crouched beyond the grimy window, the emissary waited impatiently for the prophetess to finish uttering her predictions to the gullible fool standing opposite her in the entrance to her hovel. He flushed with anger suddenly. Why was that joker wasting his time hanging about the door to the rag-and-bone man’s house? He had not ventured out to this hole to have his future told.

  I must know! The emissary clenched his fists. No one would stand in his way, no one!

  Finally, he saw the bloke leave and the drunken sot shut the door. The emissary slipped out of Léonard Diélette’s shack and followed Joseph. His pale face, bathed in sweat, expressed intense rage.

  ‘Dirty kid, dirty little brat, she’ll have to come home eventually. As for that palm reader, I’m not going to let her out of my sight.’

  Yvette had laid her arm on the donkey’s neck. Her darned jacket offered little protection from the cold. A hint of weariness was evident i
n her posture, giving her the appearance of a woman-child gripped by worries beyond her years.

  Victor pushed the photo to one side. What should the caption be? Bewilderment? Distrust? Finally he wrote on the back of the print: Little pin-seller with her lame protector. April …’

  The telephone rang and he jumped, making an ink blot. He cursed and went to answer the phone, finishing off the caption with the receiver tucked under his ear.

  … 1892, Yvette was only eleven when …

  ‘Yes, Joseph … Yes, I heard you … Yes, you’ve rung to tell me the rag-and-bone man lives in Cité Doré. I knew that already … I didn’t tell you because I had no idea it could have anything to do with … Well done. Thanks for ringing … Tomorrow morning? … Good, that’s agreed then.’

  He hung up, deep in thought, shrugged on his coat, turned off the lamp and crossed the courtyard.

  As he pushed open the door of the studio, Tasha was finishing making up a parcel. He embraced her and gave her a kiss, then stared at her enquiringly.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked, indicating the parcel.

  ‘Oh that, just some clothes for a friend.’

  ‘Have you forgotten? We’re going out for dinner. I booked a table at …’

  ‘Bother, it completely slipped my mind! I’m all over the place at the moment. That exhibition in Barbizon is weighing on me.’

  ‘When are you leaving?’

  He was trying to sound nonchalant, but his question burst out abruptly.

  ‘You know when. Tomorrow. I’ll be back on Saturday evening. Oh, darling, you look just like a painting by that artist who always paints lowering skies and imminent storms in shades of black and dark green.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about painting — who are you talking about?’

  ‘El Greco.’

  ‘Oh, thanks for that — those famous religious scenes of suffering.’

  She burst out laughing.

  ‘But that’s what you look like: sullen, sulky and suspicious.’

  ‘Oversensitive, too sentimental, madly in love and jealous, you mean! Horrid woman. You know I’m paranoid; I’m always worried I’m not good enough for you.’

  ‘How can you even think that? I would never be able to love another man.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really, because I know that no other man would give me the freedom you do.’

  ‘That’s the only reason you love me?’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous — you’re the man I want to spend the rest of my life with.’

  ‘Then marry me.’

  ‘I love you far too much to let you make that mistake. Why is marriage so important to you? What would being officially united by a civil servant add to our relationship? If I became Madame Legris, people would pity you. They’d say, “That poor Monsieur Legris. His wife is a loose woman: she paints and hangs out with libertines.” You would hate that, I know you would. Being your mistress is much more moral in the eyes of society. It’s accepted that a man sleeps with a woman like me, but as for marrying her …’

  ‘I don’t give a toss what polite society thinks …’

  ‘Really? Why don’t we stay in tonight? I’ll fetch your slippers, we’ll read the papers and sit by the fire chatting. What do you say to that foretaste of marriage?’

  ‘I’d say that nothing is certain in this world except what we’re about to do now,’ he whispered, pulling her over to the bed.

  CHAPTER 8

  Thursday, 14 April

  THE fog engulfing Paris was beginning to dissipate; the afternoon would be cold but fine. Victor had decided to walk, hoping it would help him to order his thoughts, which were more confused than ever, now that Joseph had been back to Cité Doré very early that morning and knocked on Léonard Diélette’s closed door. Finding he was still not home, Joseph had set off to look for the rag-and-bone man, wandering through a labyrinth of paths bordered by sordid dwellings, and asking the residents if they knew anything. But no one had seen Diélette or his daughter. And as for Coralie Blinde, Joseph was informed by her neighbour, a porcelain mender, that she was taking Clampin for a walk over by the gasworks. Joseph had given up and left.

  What had become of the rag-and-bone man? That was one of the things Victor was puzzling over. He hoped nothing had happened to the child … As he approached Rue Montmartre, he reflected that the goblet was disastrous for anyone unlucky enough to encounter it.

  His satchel containing his photographic equipment was growing heavy, so he stopped near the chevet of Église Saint-Eustache. On the horizon, over the roofs of Les Halles, the Tour Saint-Jacques rose up like a sentry lying in wait for devils to appear from the city’s thoroughfares. Victor imagined one of them prowling in his wake and even thought he could make out its evil cackling in the neighing of a horse.

  He made his way along the pavements, past the hawkers and loafers. His pulse quickened. There, that little person with her back to him, showing off her wares to the passers-by, wasn’t that Yvette? He touched her shoulder and immediately realised his mistake when he saw the shrivelled face of a deformed old woman.

  ‘A ribbon, Monsieur?’

  He shook his head, slipping on a lettuce leaf at the entrance of a soup kitchen where a cook, a towel round his neck, was laughing raucously. Like a man shipwrecked, clinging to a lifeline, Victor took refuge inside an automated bar at number 32.The barman, perched on a ladder, was offering customers in a hurry the chance to use the new fountains, which would revolutionise French society. Counters mounted on double rows of stacked casks ran down each side of the room, displaying a choice of French beers, punch and Malaga wine. All you had to do was position your glass under a tap, put a coin in the slot and your drink would be dispensed.

  ‘Just ten centimes for half a pint! And they never overflow, do you hear that, Monsieur? Ne-ver. Our machines function like clockwork; the mechanism in the money box responds immediately to each request! And don’t go thinking that there are goblins hidden in the barrels busy working the levers! No, Monsieur, it’s scientific. However, your glass will not wash itself; it needs the beautiful white hands of Mademoiselle Prudence. So reflect on that as you reach for your tip! Come on, Monsieur, give it a go — it won’t bite!’

  This was addressed to Victor, who was caught at the counter. Ignoring the reddish face of the fast-talking bartender, he accosted Mademoiselle Prudence, who looked at him with as much interest as if he too were a machine.

  ‘Madame … Mademoiselle, would you by any chance have noticed a little girl of ten or eleven? She sells pins near your bar?’

  ‘Dunno, maybe.’

  Indolently she pocketed Victor’s twenty sous.

  ‘When did you see her last? It’s really important.’

  She looked him up and down, suddenly attentive, and he wondered if the coin had set in motion Broca’s Area, said to be the part of the brain controlling speech.

  ‘You wouldn’t be one of those bastards who picks up kids from the street and screws them?’ the women asked him in a shrill voice.

  Victor reddened furiously.

  ‘Now hang on a minute, Mademoiselle …’

  ‘Well, you’re not exactly her father, are you?’

  ‘What’s going on, Prudence?’ bellowed the bartender.

  ‘This here bloke’s after Yvette.’

  ‘Yvette? She was taken off to the police station yesterday evening.’

  ‘Which police station?’

  ‘Oh, she won’t still be there. She’ll have been taken to the cells by now.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  Victor raised his hat and slipped out.

  ‘He comes in, drinks nothing, picks our brains and then leaves,’ grumbled the bartender in disgust.

  The emissary had leant his bicycle against the wall, near the packaging shop. He was crouching down, pretending to check his chain, his gaze fixed on the Elzévir bookshop. The Japanese man had just left and the chap he’d seen the day before in the Dumathrat quarter was rea
ding the paper behind the counter. That morning he had left his home on Rue Visconti and returned to Cité Doré before going to work.

  ‘Do you need any help?’

  The emissary jumped, and, fiddling with his pedal, replied, ‘No thanks, I’m fine.’

  A pair of black ankle boots topped by plump calves, the hem of a tartan cape and a purple overcoat had stopped a little way from his bicycle.

  ‘Dearest, it’s no use — you’ll never convince me!’ cried a female voice. ‘They’re nothing but trouble.’

  ‘Yes, but Raphaëlle, times change — sixty years ago it would have been out of the question for our grandparents even to think about sitting astride two wheels. Now, I tell you, it’s the only way forward. Soon absolutely everyone will be going about on bicycles. Don’t you agree, Mathilde?’

  ‘Helga’s right. Walking will go out of fashion. Take it from us: soon humanity will crave speed.’

  The emissary shrank down. Would these three blue-stockings never move on?

  Finally the boots walked away, followed by the cape and the overcoat. The emissary leaned forwards slightly and watched the three ladies enter the bookshop. The assistant greeted them, went over to a bookshelf, pulled out several volumes and handed them to the ladies before hurrying over to a desk with a telephone on it. He picked up the receiver. After a minute he hung up and ran upstairs. When he came down again, he had a young girl with him who went over to the customers. The assistant put on his jacket and cap and ran from the bookshop towards Quai Malaquais. The emissary barely had time to scramble into his saddle.

  Victor pushed the telephone away and considered the photo of Yvette. It was imperative that Joseph succeed in getting her released from the police cells!

  Once he’d left the automated bar, he had thought about Mademoiselle Prudence’s lewd comment, and by the time he reached Les Halles, he’d realised he could not just turn up at Quai de l’Horloge1 and demand Yvette’s release without the necessary papers. What should he do? He had made his way amongst the mountains of potatoes, towers of pumpkins and mounds of carrots, turnips and cabbages and found himself at the spot where servants waited to be hired. There they were, twenty or so humble girls sitting or standing around, patiently waiting for a new master or mistress. Poor little atoms lost in this ocean of food, a stone’s throw from the immense Pavillon de la Marée, the fish market, where thousands of aquatic creatures lay piled up, lifeless, on marble slabs. And suddenly he remembered the little tortoise and that brought to mind the lanky silhouette of Raoul Pérot.