‘Was that breakfast?’
‘Lunch, I suspect.’
‘So I’ve been out for what … a day and a night?’
Raf nodded.
There was a moan from the next bed. A man tossed and writhed. He howled out a name. A nurse came running.
James winced. He didn’t want to be here. There was so much to do. He placed his feet gingerly on the floor, tested their strength.
Raf held on to him, his expression worried. ‘I’m not sure you’re quite strong enough yet.’
‘I’m not going to get any stronger here.’ He gritted his teeth against the pain at his side. Stitches, he imagined. He hadn’t dared to check yet.
‘Look, Jim. I’m going to find that doctor, take his advice. You just wait.’
‘Find out about Comte, while you’re at it.’ James inched back onto the bed. ‘I’ve been wrong, Raf. All my suppositions were wrong. Marcel Caro and Comte couldn’t have been in cahoots. I don’t know where that leaves us. I really don’t.’ His spirits felt as flat as a withered prairie at the end of August. ‘Just when I sensed we were getting somewhere.’
It was Raf’s turn to be patient and philosophical. ‘Let’s wait and hear what the Chief Inspector has to report. There are things going on here that we’re not seeing clearly. But I sense we’re on the right track, Jim. I really do. Caro and Comte were probably in on the trafficking together. And the murders. Then they fell out over something. Isn’t that always the way with villains?’ With a clumsy show of tenderness, he patted his brother on the shoulder and hurried down the aisle between the crowded rows of beds.
James wasn’t discharged until dusk had fallen. Raf had brought him a fresh shirt, a suit, all the necessary. He told him he had chucked his other clothes. No point in being reminded of rents and slashes and blood.
Despite protests, James suffered the humiliation of being wheeled to the hospital gates in a chair. It made him think of Ellie and he asked Raf if he had checked in on her.
‘I’ll send her a bleu as soon as I’ve dropped you at Marguerite’s. We won’t worry her, just let her know that you’ve had a little accident and need a few day’s mending.’ Raf gave him a swift assessing look as he helped him into the carriage. ‘You’re too good at guilt, Jim. She’ll be all right. We have other things to think about.’
‘Why Marguerite’s? I don’t want to go there.’ James settled testily into leather and realised simultaneously that it was the Landois carriage they were in. ‘I’d really rather be on my own.’
‘You need a little looking after, Jim. And Marguerite’s got the staff. Besides, she insisted.’
The carriage lurched into motion. James flinched, held himself rigid. He was grateful for the traffic which kept their progress along the boulevards slow. The evening was clear, the sky a deep, darkening blue and after the persistent rain, strollers were making the most of the weather. Everything looked a little unreal to him, even the most mundane things, as if he had been away for a long time. At the edge of the Jardin du Luxembourg, the chestnuts swayed with a sumptuous motion. The smell of hot, apple-filled beignets wafted through the window from the vendor’s kiosque with a sweetness that made his mouth water. A cyclist in a peaked cap and goggles raced past them with supernatural grace. A woman in nurse’s black bent over a large pram and shook a wooden rattle. Her dimpled smile had an extraordinary delicacy.
‘You haven’t taken against Marguerite, have you, Jim?’ Raf was surveying him. ‘I realise she might be a little, well let’s say sophisticated for your tastes. But she’s a good soul. You can trust me on that, if nothing else. She’s a brick, really.’ Raf’s voice carried the ring of earnest passion. ‘She’s helped me more than I can tell you.’
James attempted a chuckle. ‘I have no doubts at all on that score. It’s just that I’m not feeling quite up to such stimulating company.’
‘I think you’d find trying to get to the Grand rather more stimulating. The boulevard’s been cordoned off. A bomb exploded somewhere near there last night. Anarchists, I imagine. I had a prowl when I went back for your clothes. I should be covering it. I may go and have another ferret round once I’ve dropped you. But I’ll make sure to tell Marguerite all you want is rest.’
Rest of a kind was what James got. He didn’t lay eyes on Marguerite. Pierre accompanied him to the room he had stayed in the previous week, told him a light supper would soon be brought up and that the doctor would be visiting first thing in the morning. Then he was left to his own devices. He sipped a little of the hot broth, nibbled at the chicken and dozed. He dozed through the night, his dreams galloping in reckless directions, taking him down treacherous streets where blood ran in the sewers like so much rainwater. Looming giants hurled knives at him and he caught them and hurled them back only to wake, bathed in perspiration.
When his eyes closed again, he was on a rickety barge in wintry waters. Something thudded against the stern and he raced towards the sound, chased by a grotesque woman with a gap-toothed grin. She got there first and with an icy chuckle heaved a body from the waters, a beautiful girl, weeds dangling from her hair like tresses. A sheet floated behind her. It trailed from her neck which was arched in an odd position, but her eyes were open and they wept giant tears. It was a waif’s face. Eugénie. All around her now stood a circle of onlookers – a woman in a top hat like a circus ringmaster, a frail creature with rouged cheekbones and gnarled skeletal fingers which tapped the arms of a wheelchair, a bearded, wild-eyed figure, with outstretched hands and a soundless wail of a mouth. There was a stout bearded man, too, in a white coat, a malevolent smile on his face as he reached for a syringe, but he fell into the waters and they closed round him in a whirlpool.
He started awake. His throat was parched. He reached for the glass by his bedside and drank noisily. Then he was asleep again. A woman lay at his side. He stroked her hair. It was crinkly and rough, but as he stroked, it turned silken. Maisie, he whispered, but she turned to dust in his hands and from somewhere a babe cried. Then he was standing in the dock in a courtroom. A tricolor fluttered above a moustachioed judge in black robes and a strange, round hat. The judge consulted the stern matriarch at his side. She had the features of his mother, but they spoke whispered French and in unison they pointed a finger at him and passed sentence. A stabbing pain rent his chest. Feet marched towards him over wooden floors. ‘Monsieur Norton. Monsieur Norton.’
It took James a long moment to recognise Pierre’s voice. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur, but Dr Blanchard has arrived.’
Pierre waved through the maid with a tray. ‘I’ll have him hold on for a few moments, while Monsieur has his coffee.’
‘Thank you, Pierre.’
The doctor, when he came, was gentle, but thorough. He checked his pulse, shone a light into his eyes, examined the back of his head, dabbed at it with some stinging lotion, then washed and changed his dressing. For the first time, James looked down at his chest and saw a sizeable welt of mottled blue and yellow, the puckered skin at its centre held together in ugly leather notches. He averted his gaze. The doctor tsked beneath his breath, wound gauze round him, counselled rest, and said he would be back the following morning.
James lay there, sipping coffee, crumbling bits of brioche and feeling sorry for himself. At last, with a grunt of impatience, he got up. He gazed out the window. The sky was blue, laced with the fluff of clouds. He made several turns of the room, checking his balance. He was fine, he determined. Within minutes, he had his clothes on. Quietly he made his way downstairs.
From the orangerie came the sounds of a familiar sonata. Marguerite must be at the piano. There was a pause and a child’s high clear voice rose from the room. Juliette. He recognised her at once and faltered, drawn by the thought of a morning in such inviting company. Then, with quick decision, he continued on his original course. He chose to walk the distance rather than risk the bumps and jolts of a cab. The slow but steady progress also helped to chase the clouds from his mind.
*
>
The Quai des Orfèvres had the dusty gloom and rancorous commotion of a headquarters of disaster. Uniformed officers jostled and prodded unwilling suspects. Villains shouted and cursed. Plaintive women, shoulders hunched and eyes lowered, huddled on benches. Self-important police clerks extracted requests or charges and noted them with a laborious slowness calculated to intimidate.
James’s terse demand for the location of Chief Inspector Durand’s office was met only with narrowed eyes and an order to wait. He waited. He repeated his request, this time with an emphasis on the fact that he had an appointment. He waited some more. The scene he had forsaken in Marguerite’s organerie grew more inviting with each passing minute. At last, with a surge of anger, he shouted at the delaying official, only to be met with an innocent gaze and a pointing finger. Chief Inspector Durand had just come in. James turned to see him hurrying across the hall.
‘Chief Inspector.’ James hailed him.
Durand gave him the full benefit of his surprise. ‘Up already, Monsieur Norton. Good, good.’ His expression belied his words. The man looked exhausted. His eyes bulged, his cheeks were sallow, his tie was askew as if he had been tugging at it for need of air.
‘Can we go somewhere to talk?’
‘Talk, talk, of course.’ The Chief Inspector seemed distracted, but as he ushered him up stairs and along a corridor, he chuckled sardonically. ‘If only you were a little the worse for wear, Monsieur Norton, the case against Marcel Caro would be that much stronger.’
‘What are you talking about? You can throw the book at Caro. Two attempted murders. Suspicion of several successful ones. Not to mention trafficking and pimping. Come on, Chief Inspector. You hardly need my dead body for evidence.’
‘Calm yourself, Monsieur. Of course, we can hold Caro. But as for the trial, the only thing we’ve got is his assault on you, which he claims is self-defence. You went for him first. You’re a lawyer, Monsieur Norton. You understand the difficulty.’
Durand waved him through into a not-insubstantial office. James was astonished at its aspect. The papers on the mahogany desk were stacked with a fanatic’s precision. Pens and a bronze inkwell stood next to a vase of perfect flesh-pink roses arranged with a woman’s eye. There were prints and drawings on the walls which displayed a collector’s refined taste. Even the leaves of the plane trees outside seemed to have been arranged for effect.
Durand pointed to a comfortable armchair. ‘Except for the assault on you, we have no witnesses. No proof.’ He shrugged. ‘But we can go and see Maître Chardon later. For your deposition.’
James didn’t sit. He stared at Durand in disbelief. ‘I don’t understand you, Chief Inspector. Either this attack has addled my brain or there’s something wrong with your interrogation techniques. I suggest we go and interview Caro together right now.’
Durand shook his head. ‘The vice squad officers are with him.’
James examined him closely. He thought of Touquet’s warnings about the corruption in the morality police. Caro would inevitably have old friends in their ranks, let alone new ones who were probably extracting not a little material benefit from his scabrous activities. ‘Are they the problem?’
Durand’s only answer was to finger his lavish moustache reflectively. ‘You should sit down, Monsieur Norton. All this agitation can’t be good for you.’
‘Waiting isn’t good for me either. Or for anyone else. Is the problem with Caro’s friends in the vice squad?’
Durand shrugged. ‘We’ll see, we’ll see. Never forget, Monsieur Norton, that the vice squad is a useful tool of public order. These officers are right in the thick of the criminal world. They see things in those brothels, on the streets. They hear things … about the plans of anarchists and royalists and any variety of agents of public disorder. Politicians are, how shall I say it, “attached” to them.’
‘And they line their pockets. I worry, Chief Inspector. I worry about those young women trapped in this labyrinth of corruption. They have nowhere to turn.’
‘I worry, too, Monsieur Norton.’ Durand was visibly downhearted.
‘I worry about the progress of our murder enquiry. It seems to lead only to more deaths.’
It came to James again that he genuinely liked the man. The strategy presented itself to him in a flash. He sat down and looked Durand in the eye. ‘We’re going to get you a promotion, Chief Inspector. I suspect your new cabinet, not to mention the upstanding Monsieur Waldeck-Rousseau, would not be averse to seeing at least one branch of the force demonstrating that its position on the Jewish question is the best of Republican ones.’
‘I don’t understand you. What are you suggesting, Monsieur Norton?’
‘My brother has probably already mentioned much of this to you, but let’s take it step be step.’ James told him about the prostitutes who wore the Hebrew character on a chain round their necks. The charms came from Caro. A similar charm had been found in the metro shaft where the supposed suicide of the prostitute had taken place. He emphasised that with a little help from their journalist friends, Durand’s investigation would take on the aura of a campaign. A police intervention to stop the traffic in Jewish women could not but be popular with the new government and even with a substantial sector of the public. It would be in keeping with Dreyfus’s return from Devil’s Island and his new trial. It would demonstrate that the police treated all sectors of the population with equal respect. It would also demonstrate that the police, Chief Inspector Durand foremost amongst them, were not afraid of seeking out corruption in their own ranks.
Durand listened with distinct scepticism. ‘This is all fine and well, Monsieur Norton. But an investigation deals in facts and witnesses, not vague accusations.’
‘I can help you round up some witnesses immediately, Chief Inspector. Trust me. But you may need to persuade them a little – a promise of papers might not come amiss, perhaps even a change of address, a move to some small town where the witnesses are not at the mercy of Caro’s henchmen and your morality police. What do you say? No, don’t answer me now. Just come with me.’
An hour later, they were outside the Hotel Monpiquet. In the daylight, the building had an innocuous air. It was a slightly shabby edifice, indistinguishable from its neighbours. The door was locked. It took three long rings to rouse a response.
While they waited, Durand questioned him. ‘I thought your primary interest was in the death of Olympe Fabre. With the best will in the world, I can’t see how any of this helps you.’
‘Didn’t Raf mention it? Olympe Fabre used to visit this establishment. She had an interest in the girls’ welfare. Her sister, you should know, after the tragic death of their mother, worked in a similar place for a short while. One of the women we need to interview here knew both the sisters from that time. And Caro could well be implicated in Olympe’s death as well.’
‘I see. So that’s what your brother’s been up to.’
‘What we’ve both been up to.’
Durand threw back his shoulders as the door opened. He held his walking stick like an offensive weapon. ‘Police,’ he announced to a young aproned woman with heavy-lidded eyes whom James didn’t recognise. She stood to nervous attention.
‘We wish to see Madame Simone,’ he said, imitating Durand’s tone.
The woman looked from one to the other of them, seemed about to say something, then changed her mind and with a shrug led them in.
The red-upholstered main room was all but deserted. It looked tawdry in the light. Two girls in loosely fitting robes sat by the window palms and played cards. Neither of them was Eugénie.
‘Wait here, Messieurs. I’ll fetch her.’
‘No, no.’ James was adamant. He didn’t want the tricky Madame Simone to disappear before their eyes. ‘We’ll come with you.’
‘As you please,’ she repeated the shrug, her tone sullen.
She led them up the stairs James remembered and then up a further three floors. The last staircase was dusty and uneven an
d James began to rue his earlier determination. His body ached. The wound felt raw.
Their guide paused before she reached the end of the corridor, pointed at a door, then scuttled away with an anxious glance over her shoulder. ‘Don’t tell her I brought you,’ she whispered.
Durand knocked at the door with his stick. ‘Madame Simone,’ he called authoritatively.
‘I’m not dressed,’ a voice grumbled at them.
‘Open up. Police.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘One moment, please. Just one moment.’ The voice was suddenly polite. ‘Did Madame Rosa send you?’
Durand grumbled an indeterminate sound and the door opened.
In the gloom Madame Simone looked like a pudding that had escaped its mould. She was wearing some shapeless yellowish garment which matched the pouches beneath her eyes. Her chin careened down her neck. Her mouth had lost its outlines.
‘You,’ she hissed at James. She collected herself to try a smile at the Chief Inspector who brushed past her into the room. It had the aura of a den in which all the treasures of a lifetime had been stashed. Shawls draped from drawers. Hats with an assortment of smooth and speckled feathers lived their own life in a dingy corner. Cheap beads cascaded from the rim of a mottled dressing-table mirror. A half-open wardrobe poured clothes. The bed was a jumble of greying sheets. Catching his eye, Madame Simone smoothed a limp brocade spread over it. It couldn’t obliterate the musty smell.
‘My apologies, Officer. I had a lie-in this morning.’
‘Chief Inspector.’ Durand moved to open the windows.
‘Chief Inspector. Will you sit?’ She hastily cleared two upright chairs and the clutter at the small table. ‘There. That’s better.’ She smiled at the Chief Inspector, studiously avoiding James, though she left the second chair for him and perched herself at the edge of the bed like some outlandish Antipodean bird.
Paris Requiem Page 38