Читать книгу The Predator of Batignolles: 5th Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 17

‘Hell’s bells! What do you want: a juicy chop, or would you rather have thin broth?’ yelled a man dressed in breeches, stockings and a plumed hat.

The chambermaid felt her cheeks turn red. Tears blurred her vision. She began to curtsey and almost dropped her tray, causing a cardboard chicken and some wax pears to roll around precariously.

‘I-I don’t understand,’ she stammered.

‘And yet it is quite simple, my dear,’ the gentleman retorted. ‘If you want the juicy chop – in other words, success – you’ll have to serve Henry IV, alias muggins here, with a bit more panache. Wiggle the bits that matter, front and back! Then turn to the audience and say:

‘Although he’s good and kind and brave

Our sovereign’s nonetheless a knave.

‘I’m not asking for the moon! Stop snivelling … what’s your name again?’

‘Andréa.’

‘That’s a pretty name. Now, blow your nose, Andréa. We’ll win them over. Break for fifteen minutes.’

Edmond Leglantier, actor and director of Heart Pierced by an Arrow, a historical play in four acts, leapt down off the stage and went to join the actors playing Maria de Medici and Ravaillac sitting in the third row.

‘So, what do you think, children? Will the audience be impressed?’

‘The claque will applaud rapturously every time the actors come on, and I’m certain the play will be a success,’ Ravaillac assured him.

‘Let’s hope the gods can hear you …What rotten luck! How were we to know that two other plays about the same subject would be put on this summer? They’re already advertising The Flower Seller of The Innocents8 at the Châtelet and The Doll’s House9 at Porte-Saint-Martin! And you’re in the starring role!’

‘Me?’

‘Not you, you fool – Ravaillac! Including our one, that makes three. And there I was hoping to pull out all the stops for the reopening of Théâtre de l’Échiquier.’

Edmond Leglantier cast a dispirited eye over the Italianate auditorium whose refurbishment had plunged him up to his eyes in debt. He was staking everything on this production. If it was a flop, his creditors would be baying for his blood … Unless of course the swindle he was planning at the club paid off.

The stage manager stuck his head over the balcony.

‘Pssst! Monsieur Leglantier! Philibert Dumont is looking for you everywhere. I told him you were at home.’

‘What a nuisance the man is! I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled. Thanks anyway.’

‘Who is Dumont?’ asked Maria de Medici.

‘The author of the play and a terrible bore. On that note, I’m going to have a quick smoke and then we’ll rehearse Act III. Sharpen your sword, Ravaillac!’

As soon as Henry IV had left the auditorium, Andréa asked her two fellow actors, ‘What’s got into him? I’m not used to being spoken to like that!’

‘Well, you’d better get used to it. Monsieur Leglantier’s very tense these days,’ said Ravaillac. ‘He’s sunk every last penny into this theatre. It’s his pride and joy.’

‘But the theatre hasn’t even opened yet. Where does he get his money?’

‘A rich uncle or some shady business deals? How should I know? Apparently he’s sold a painting.’

‘I know where he gets it,’ said the buxom Maria de Medici. ‘At the gaming table. He goes at it with the same passion as good King Henry when he was seducing young maidens. Edmond personifies the two masks of classical theatre, laughing one minute, crying the next. If he’s splitting his sides, it means he’s winning at baccarat; if he’s grimacing, he’s been cleaned out the night before. Fortunately he laughs more often than he cries!’

Ravaillac was surprised.

‘I don’t know where he finds the time. He spends hours at the theatre ordering the wardrobe mistresses about, spying on the stagehands, pestering the actors and explaining Hamlet, Le Cid or Andromaque to the extras who couldn’t give a fig!’

‘Oh, he finds the time all right, don’t you worry! He’s as strong as an ox, despite being fifty. It’s common knowledge that he has several mistresses. The official one is Adélaïde Paillet. She gets two nights a week and, when he’s fulfilled his obligations there, his passion for cards takes him to the club on the Boulevard. He goes on gambling, promising himself he’ll stop as soon as he makes a big win. He’s been on a winning streak the past few nights, which means his purse is full and we’ll get paid.’

‘Does he never stop?’ asked Andréa.

‘He goes to bed at dawn and gets up at noon.’

‘You seem to know an awful lot about him, Eugénie,’ remarked Ravaillac. ‘Anybody would think you were privy to the maestro’s secrets … Pillow talk, perhaps?’

‘Isn’t Maria de Medici Henry IV’s other half, clever-clogs?’

A voice boomed, ‘Company on stage!’ and they scurried back to the boards where King Henry sat on high in an open carriage while some stagehands struggled to put up a backdrop representing Rue de la Ferronnerie, with its letter-writers’ and washerwomen’s shops.

‘Hey! Wake up, Ravaillac! Where’s your wig? You’re supposed to be a redhead. What on earth possessed me to hire such a ham! For heaven’s sake, you’re meant to cut my throat, not sit around jabbering with these ladies!’

The manager’s office was on the second floor, above the foyer. As soon as the rehearsal had finished, Edmond Leglantier hurried upstairs to change. He peeled off his false beard, smothered his face in cold cream, cleaned off the greasepaint and coloured his salt-and-pepper moustache with some make-up filched from Eugénie. He crooned as he buttoned his shirt:

‘No m ore gaming at the table

Ding dong! The horse is in the stable.

A fine, handsome role awaits me

A Don Diego or an Othello!

‘I can smell it. That fickle mistress fame will be mine! I’ll spare no expense, gilt chairs and electric lighting in the auditorium if you please! Who would dare question my luck? I shan’t be playing baccarat tonight, I’ll be playing the players, and it will be the performance of a lifetime!’

He took a bundle of shares from a drawer, and studied one of them. An elegantly crossed pipe and cigar holder framed in wreaths of smoke a text, which he read out pompously:

‘Public Company AMBREX Statutes registered with Maître Piard, Notary of Paris, 14 February 1893 ISSUED CAPITAL 1,000,000 francs Divided into 2,000 shares of 500 francs each HEAD OFFICE: PARIS The holder is beneficiary of the share Paris, 30 April 1893 Director Director

‘Perfect,’ he concluded, with a smile. ‘The artist has surpassed himself.’

He kissed the shares in the manner of a bashful lover.

‘You are ravishing, my beauties, decked out in all your finery. You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar! Nothing reassures an investor more than seeing with his own eyes, in finely engraved copperplate, the gold mine that promises to make his nest egg grow. The gold mine in this case being these smoking accessories, which look every bit as authentic as a picture in a magazine – and people will believe anything they see in print.’

He counted out twenty-five share certificates, stored the remainder in a safe from which he took an equal number of cigar holders, and placed the whole lot in a briefcase. Then, standing before a cheval glass, he knotted his tie and declaimed in a quavering voice worthy of a member of the Comédie-Française, ‘Never will a better use be found for paper than converting it into hard cash or potential dividends from shares in variform enterprises.’

The adjective so pleased him that he rolled the ‘r’s in an exaggerated fashion, and continued, ‘… Variform enterprises such as the intensive farming of knobbly trees in an as yet unexplored region of our colonies or the transformation of fossilised resin into pipes! Prepare for your entrance, Leglantier my friend, the performance is about to begin!’

The wide pavements of Boulevard de Bonne-Nouvelle were thronging with people running errands or idling at tables outside cafés. Edmond Leglantier checked that the sandwich men lugging the advertisements for Théâtre de l’Échiquier, which was tucked away down a quiet street, were doing their job properly.

He saw one of them parading back and forth in front of a building housing a general store. Another one was pacing up and down the esplanade outside the Théâtre du Gymnase, proud to be the focus of attention of the onlookers lolling on the benches. Satisfied, Leglantier continued on his way towards Boulevard Poissonnière.

It was when he reached Boulevard Montmartre that he noticed the fair-haired fellow in the light-coloured suit. He ducked into a urinal, his mind racing like quicksilver, and tried to gather his thoughts by softly chanting:

‘And slyly when the world is sleeping yet

He smooths out collars for the Easter daisies

And fashions golden buttercups to set

In woodland mazes.’ 10

He had seen the man before. First when he was leaving the theatre and then at the bar in Muller’s brasserie, not far from the table where the fat man had handed over the cigar holders and share certificates. He’d suspected nothing at the time, but now …

If he follows me, I’ll know for sure, he thought.

He walked out of the urinal and made straight for a barber’s shop where the window served as a convenient mirror. The man in the light-coloured suit had disappeared into the crowd.

A frantic wave of anglomania was transforming the neighbourhood into a little corner of London. Every shop was British, from opticians to hatters, not forgetting the tailors and bootmakers who all boasted the words ‘modern’ or ‘select’ in their signs. In contrast, the street vendors who pestered passers-by were unmistakably French.

‘Cool off with a refreshing coconut ice, ladies and gentlemen!’ shouted a trader, clanging his bell and stooping under the weight of his tinplate barrel.

‘In the Russian style, ladies, in the Russian style,’ shrieked the flower seller, pushing her cartload of variegated blooms, the violets the star of the show.

Edmond Leglantier bought a red carnation, which he put in his buttonhole, brushing aside a man peddling risqué photographs entitled Pauline’s Bath. Sluggish from the sweltering heat of late afternoon, he paused to consider whether to catch the Madeleine–Bastille omnibus or take a glass of quinquina at one of the tables outside the taverns.

He felt the weight of his briefcase and decided to continue on foot. He needed a clear head for the matter in hand.

He was greeted at the entrance to the club by a woman of gargantuan proportions nicknamed ‘La belle Circassienne’ although she came from Romorantin. She served the triple function of moneylender, fortune teller and purveyor of young flesh. As was the custom, Edmond Leglantier gave her a one-franc piece in exchange for a meaningful wink and the name of a young soprano singer in need of a benefactor.

‘Her name’s Rosalba, a dear plump little thing,’ the ogress whispered.

Edmond Leglantier declined with a smile.

The Méridien was an open club and thus allowed entry to both members and non-members alike. Its clientele consisted of artists, men and women of letters, socialites and captains of industry. They went there to lunch, to dine, to write their correspondence, but above all to gamble.

The main room, with its monumental fireplace, its walls covered in enamel plates – would-be reproductions of Bernard Palissy – and its gilded tables, was lit by five-branched chandeliers. Standing to attention near the hearth, a melancholy-looking fellow responsible for handing out the chips greeted Edmond Leglantier, who replied absent-mindedly, ‘Hello, Monsieur Max.’ He surveyed the crowd gathered in one of the side rooms. It was the hour of the green fairy. The absinthe drinkers poured their magic potion drop by drop into a glass, filtering their poison through a sugar cube held in a slotted spoon. Card games were well under way. Excited by the activity around them, punters jostled eagerly for position around the banker. For some people, gambling was a true panacea. They expected the cards to provide enough money to live on. They played safe, weighing up the probabilities and placing bets only when they felt comfortable. They earned their living from gambling. But many others succumbed to the demon that could make or break them in a single hand, although their faces betrayed none of their dreadful anxiety. Only outside did they let their disappointment show.

This perennial drama was drowned out by snatches of trivial chat or profound observations. A neglected poet vented his spleen.

‘Novels and plays are churned out as if by machine. Today’s literary manufacturers cater to all tastes! I despise such publishers!’

‘What can I say, my friend, money is more important than art.’

‘Guess what he had the cheek to say to the author!’ bawled a gossip columnist. ‘“Monsieur, I’ve read your manuscript; choose your weapon.” Have you seen his new play? It doesn’t stand up at all; it’s completely overblown and then it just fizzles out! Ah! At last! Leglantier!’

A general murmur greeted the arrival of the man whom fellow club patrons considered as something of a mentor. A score of men in black tailcoats, most of them sporting monocles, immediately gathered round the manager of l’Échiquier. A heterogeneous bunch, they included military men, aristocrats and members of the middle classes, like the gossip columnist and the thwarted poet. Edmond Leglantier was good at smoothing away tensions. His inside knowledge of the latest Paris gossip, the favours he received from a few well-known actresses and the subtle way he had of denigrating his peers made him a leading light who was much in demand. And yet the moment his back was turned, his admirers attacked him viciously.

‘My dear fellow, we were just waiting for you in order to begin,’ exclaimed a retired colonel.

‘Apologies for the delay. I was so caught up in the renovations at the theatre that I lost all sense of time.’

‘And yet there’s a rumour going round that work has been suspended due to lack of funds.’

‘‘‘Slander, Monsieur, I’ve seen honest men all but destroyed by it”,11 my dear Colonel de Réauville. Lady Luck will soon be smiling on me and I shall reap the full benefits!’

‘By what miracle?’

Edmond Leglantier spread out his twenty-five share certificates on the green baize.

‘Thanks to these beauties. It’s a pity I’m short of funds otherwise I’d have bought more. They’re about to soar – I’d swear to it.’

‘Ambrex? Never heard of it,’ remarked the gossip columnist.

‘Ah, that’s because the company isn’t listed on the stock market yet, but next month … Expect a coup de théâtre – rest assured this investment will revive my finances. Your health, gentlemen,’ he concluded, waving one of the shares in the air.

Colonel de Réauville muttered, ‘Ambrex, Ambrex, dashed funny name!’

‘Come on, Leglantier, stop beating about the bush. Tell us the whole story. What is this Ambrex?’ demanded an art dealer from Rue Laffitte.

‘There’s no mystery. Look,’ said Edmond Leglantier, holding up a cigar holder. ‘What do you suppose this is made of?’

‘Amber.’

‘Wrong. It’s a perfect imitation, an invention that will revolutionise the jewellery industry.’

‘Come on, Leglantier, we’ve all seen imitation amber before, it’s just yellow glass!’ exclaimed Colonel de Réauville.

‘This isn’t glass.’

‘Gum lacquer?’

‘No.’

‘Tortoiseshell?’

‘No, no! I assure you it’s an original formula. Believe me, I’d never have put money on this company if I wasn’t convinced of its success.’

He slipped the cigar holder into his pocket, pretended to hesitate then reopened his briefcase. ‘Here, a gift for the future audience of Heart Pierced by an Arrow. Help yourselves, and be sure to bring your wives, daughters and mistresses to Théâtre de l’Échiquier!’

Every man examined the cigar holders, going into raptures about their quality. The transparency, the colour, even the tiny insects trapped in the resin looked uncannily like Baltic amber.

‘I can’t tell the difference,’ muttered the gossip columnist.

‘The patent has just been registered,’ added Edmond Leglantier.

‘Are you in partnership with the inventor?’

‘He’s an acquaintance from my youth, who invited me in on the deal.’

‘Really … Well, I for one am interested,’ replied the art dealer.

‘We’re all interested,’ seconded a tall fellow with the handlebar moustache, close-cropped hair and florid complexion of a hussar.

‘My dear Coudray, this is a limited offer only. My “acquaintance” wants to start off slowly. As Racine wrote in Les Plaideurs, Act I, Scene 1: “He who will travel far …”’

‘All right, chi va piano va sano, we know the expression. Count me in anyway,’ Coudray went on. ‘I want fifty of these shares.’

‘And I’ll have seventy!’ said a man with a monocle.

‘I want fifty, too.’

‘Count me in! I’ll buy thirty.’

‘Don’t forget me! Forty!’

Edmond Leglantier began to chuckle.

‘Calm down, gentlemen, calm down; we’re not on the trading floor now. I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise anything. I’ll have to make sure there are enough to go round …’

He opened a jotter and began taking down the orders.

‘Two hundred and forty shares … Gentlemen, it’s your lucky day. I think I’m in a position to give you what you want. As long as the shares remain unlisted, I’m the intermediary, but we’ll need to act quickly. Meet me back here at seven o’clock this evening … Oh, and no promissory notes, cash only.’

Edmond Leglantier left. His performance had been such a resounding success that he allowed himself to pat La Circassienne’s behind on his way back out onto the Boulevard.

‘Fiddle dee dee! The simpletons! It’s in the bag. Let’s see, two hundred and forty times five hundred is a hundred and twenty thousand … sixty thousand for me! And if I manage to wheedle at least another hundred thousand francs out of that old codger the Duc de Frioul tonight, I’ll be in clover!’

A bare-headed young laundress smiled at him.

He doffed his hat and called out, ‘Mademoiselle, you are utterly delightful!’

He straightened up. The fair-haired man in the light-coloured suit was leaning against a lamppost. He kept looking at his watch as though waiting for a romantic tryst. Had he been spying on him ever since he arrived at the club?

Ecce homo,12 thought Edmond Leglantier.

It occurred to him to approach the stranger, but he decided against it. He resisted a momentary urge to flee, and instead sat down at a table outside a café. He conjured up the face of the man who had hired him. Edmond Leglantier had sensed that beneath the easy-going exterior he was someone of formidable character and devilish intelligence: setting up a fraud of such complexity required total control of the situation. Was he having Leglantier tailed to make sure he didn’t try to swindle him? Edmond Leglantier shuddered. With a man like that he’d be well advised to play straight.

His shadow paced up and down, looking as though he were carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘They’d boo him off stage,’ Edmond Leglantier said to himself. ‘Well, that’s enough of that!’

Having ordered nothing, he walked back home, making sure he kept to the side streets. He forced himself not to turn round.

‘Remember Lot’s wife!’

When he reached the entrance to his building, he peered carefully about him, but his shadow was nowhere in sight.