Читать книгу The Predator of Batignolles: 5th Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 11

THE train deposited a dozen punters in striped pullovers and straw boaters on the platform before letting out a long jet of steam. The passengers clogged the exit for a moment before setting off towards the riverbank, where families dressed in their Sunday best and a podgy man in a checked bowler hat were also headed.

The man made a beeline for Pont de Chatou without so much as a glance towards the shimmering water, which was dotted with boats in the unseasonably warm spring weather. A barge whistled. The man dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and paused to light a cigar before shuffling off again.

Meanwhile an imposing-looking fellow sat sipping a glass of beer at a table outside Cabaret Fournaise in the middle of the island. His eyes were fixed on the potbellied figure in the checked bowler. He was momentarily distracted by the couples dancing beneath the poplars to a lively polka being played by three musicians on a nearby bandstand; tapping his foot to the music, he admired a narrow skiff as it darted out from behind the bend in the Seine. But his attention soon turned back to the portly chap, who was making the floorboards creak as he approached.

‘Right on time! You certainly don’t keep people waiting,’ he said, stretching nonchalantly.

‘This blasted heat! The sweat’s dripping off me. Is there somewhere quieter where we can talk?’

‘I’ve reserved a private room upstairs.’

They crossed the restaurant where waiters were busy bringing plates of fried smelts, sautéed potatoes and jugs of white wine to the tables. A flight of stairs took them up to a landing and they entered a room at the end. They sat down, face to face, and studied each other. The man in the bowler had puffy eyes and broken veins on his fleshy face, which was framed by a mop of curly hair and grizzled whiskers. He looked like a shaggy dog.

No wonder they call him the Spaniel, thought his companion, who had an aquiline nose and a jauntily turned up blond moustache.

He himself had a cat-like physique. His expression was half mocking, half disdainful, and he looked constantly on the verge of laughter. He exuded an innate charm, which made him very successful with women, but so far had failed to win over his sullen companion.

‘Call the waiter, I’m in a hurry,’ grumbled the Spaniel, crushing his cigar stub underfoot.

‘Don’t worry, Monsieur, they know we’re here. I’m a regular. We’ll get the royal treatment. While we’re waiting, tell me how much I’ll be getting.’

‘Two hundred. It’s an easy job.’

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Purloin a few cigar holders.’

‘You’re pulling my leg, Monsieur! Two hundred francs for some cigar holders?’

‘They’re made of amber. Will you do it, Daglan?’

‘How many do you need?’

‘About fifty – more if possible.’

‘And where do I find this junk?’

‘Bridoire’s Jeweller’s. Rue de la Paix, on the corner of Rue Daunou. If you pocket any trinkets, put them on ice – you can fence them later.’

The door opened and two waiters came in, one carrying a roast turkey, the other a bottle of Muscadet, glasses, plates and a bowl of frites on a tray. The waiters laid the table, carved the bird, served the wine and left.

‘Enjoy, Monsieur.’

The Spaniel gave a whistle.

‘Well, blow me, no wonder you’re always broke if you spend your money like this, my lad,’ he mumbled, piercing a drumstick with his fork.

‘A smile at last! I’ve a confession: the turkey didn’t cost me a penny. But then they don’t come craftier than me!’

Indeed, in his criminal career, Frédéric Daglan had distinguished himself in many ways – enough to make the list of the ten brightest and best brigands. He had started out as a thief, substituting fake silver for real, then became apprenticed to a confidence trickster. He possessed keen powers of observation, was a talented scout and had a fertile imagination. He was also well versed in the penal system, and had become an expert in coded language, thus avoiding any mishaps should his messages be intercepted.

‘So this turkey cost you nothing? How very amusing! Then tell me how you came by it,’ said the Spaniel, stuffing a huge piece of roasted skin in his mouth.

‘Yesterday, I was hanging around in the lobby of the Palais de Justice, waiting for a friend, and I saw His Honour Judge Lamastre, you know the fellow I mean – wields his gavel with the ease of a carpenter and sends people down for nothing! That’s when I heard him mutter to a colleague: “Damned nuisance, I left my watch at home this morning. Can’t bear not knowing the time during a hearing. And I’m on duty until late tonight: the jurors are deliberating in the high court.” His words didn’t fall on deaf ears! I’ve been hobnobbing with these law lords for years, and where they live is no secret to me. I didn’t hang about. I bought a nice fat turkey, and rang our dear Judge Lamastre’s doorbell.’

‘You rogue!’ bawled the Spaniel, taking a swig of wine.

‘A servant let me in and I told him: “I’ve come to deliver this stuffed turkey, which His Honour Judge Lamastre purchased on his way to court. It’s for lunch tomorrow. He told me that while I was at it I should fetch his chronometer, which he left at home this morning, and assured me I’d be paid for my trouble.” See how polite I can be, Monsieur.’

‘I see that you’re a prize scoundrel.’

‘The servant informed his unsuspecting mistress, Madame Lamastre, who took delivery of the turkey and handed me the watch together with a fifty-centime tip – those worthies are a stingy lot.’

‘What did you do with the watch, you rascal?’

‘I sold it sharpish, for forty francs. It was worth at least a thousand. Times are hard, Monsieur, and fences are unscrupulous in their dealings with the poor.’

‘And the turkey?’

‘Early the next day, I sent my mate to fetch it. There it was already roasting on the spit, its skin turning that golden brown which is a delight to anyone who’s fond of their food. “Quick,” said my friend, “hand over the turkey. His Honour Judge Lamastre has sent me to fetch it. The thief who stole his watch is under lock and key and the court demands to see the incriminating evidence.” This explanation seemed credible to Madame Lamastre, who swallowed it whole. She ordered the bird to be removed from the spit, and given to my chum, who hurried off, not wanting to keep the judges waiting, you understand. And how is my bird?’

‘Utterly delicious, you devil!’ acknowledged the Spaniel, quivering with laughter.

He wiped his mouth and began cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

‘So, can I count on you?’

‘When do you need your cigar holders?’

‘A week today, here, same time.’

‘That’s not much time.’

‘You’ll have to manage as best you can. And if anything goes wrong, mum’s the word, all right? We’ve never met.’

‘Rest assured, when Frédéric Daglan’s lips are sealed, the Devil himself couldn’t prise them open. Go on, drink up and eat your fill. It’d be a shame to waste such a handsome bird, especially as I can’t promise you another one next Sunday!’