Читать книгу The Montmartre Investigation: 3rd Victor Legris Mystery - Claude Izner - Страница 11

THE bookshop was still slumbering, bathed in a gloomy half-light. A wisp of steam rose from a cup that had been left beside the bust of Molière. Kenji had spread a green cloth over the centre table and was busily arranging the wicker chairs that Jojo had fetched from the back of the shop. The silence was broken by the occasional rumble of a carriage on Rue des Saints-Pères.

‘I can’t see a thing. Turn the lights up, will you, Joseph,’ said Victor, yawning.

He tottered down the stairs. He should have resisted the urge to go back to bed after returning from Tasha’s at dawn. He felt about as refreshed as a drunk nursing a hangover. He narrowly avoided colliding with Kenji.

‘What are you doing here? What about the quarantine?’

‘The ship is ready to weigh anchor. Dr Reynaud has given me a clean bill of health.’

‘And you have organised a party to celebrate this new freedom?’

‘May I remind you that we are receiving the Friends of Old Paris? Monsieur Anatole France said he would be coming. Why are you waving your arms about like that, Joseph?’

‘It’s the battleaxe, Boss! I mean … the Comtesse de Salignac.’

Joseph indicated a haughty woman wrapped in a large, floral cape and wearing a stern expression who was standing outside the shop, waiting for someone to deign to let her in, which Kenji hurriedly did.

‘Not a moment too soon. I was beginning to believe you intended leaving me out there to freeze. It would appear you are opening late today. I see you have returned from your travels, Monsieur Mori.’

‘Yes, I … How may we be of service, my dear lady?’

The sound of the telephone ringing took Victor away.

‘I want three copies of Georges de Peyrebrune’s latest book, Giselle, which Charpentier and Fasquelle are about to bring out. First editions, if possible.’

While Kenji went over to his desk, Joseph turned his back on the Comtesse and picked up the newspaper he had bought on his way to work.

‘If you had a modicum of manners, young man, you would offer me a seat on one of those numerous chairs. Unless of course they are merely for show,’ said the Comtesse.

Jojo dropped the newspaper with a start, and it fell open on the floor. Victor, having hung up the receiver, was hurriedly pulling up a chair for the Comtesse. Ignoring his gesture, she extracted a lorgnette from her reticule, bent down and began reading an article out loud:

‘Macabre dawn discovery. A young woman was found strangled, her face disfigured by acid, lying at Killer’s Crossing, between Boulevard Montmartre and Boulevard Poissonière. She was wearing …’

‘These rags are sickening!’ cried the Comtesse, standing bolt upright. ‘Gore is all that interests them! If it isn’t train crashes and executions, it’s murder! And it is contaminating our literature. This article is as grotesque as the latest novel of Monsieur Huysmans!’

‘Are you referring to The Damned?’ Victor asked.

‘I am indeed. Monsieur Huysmans might one day regret having written it. Many of his admirers, Monsieur Legris, already regret having read it. Poor France!’

She exited imperiously before Kenji, who had stood to attention, had a chance to say goodbye.

‘Was she referring to Monsieur Anatole?’

‘She was lamenting the moral state of the country,’ Victor replied wearily. ‘Would you go and buy me a cigar, Joseph?’

Jojo grabbed his newspaper, relieved to have an excuse to slip away. Kenji watched him leave and then went upstairs under the pretext of writing a letter. He stood at his desk, fiddling with the corner of his blotter and idly contemplating a very fine ink-on-silk drawing of Mount Fuji by Kanõ Tanyu,10 which he planned to frame. Through his clouded vision, the volcano took on the form of an enormous, snow-capped shoe. What had he done with the shoe that had given him such a fright? He seemed to recall having dropped it in the bookshop, or had he left it in the carriage? He had nearly asked Joseph, but stopped himself just in time, for that would have meant mentioning Iris. The events of the previous evening had been so confused! His panic when he had recognised the shoe Joseph had proffered as one he had bought in London; his frantic race to the Bontemps Boarding School, expecting to learn some tragic piece of news; his dread of revealing his secret to Victor; his relief when Iris came running towards him, overjoyed at his surprise visit, and the explanation she had given for the lost shoe. He had been awake all night rehearsing the conversation he had now resolved to have with Victor, which he had put off for so long.

He shut himself in the bathroom, and after holding his hands under the hot-water tap for a moment placed them over his face. He looked at a photograph in an ornate frame that stood on a marble shelf above the washbasin: Daphné and Victor, London 1872. A young, dark-haired woman was lovingly embracing a boy of around twelve and staring at the camera with a dreamy expression. Kenji picked up the portrait and pressed it to his lips.

Joseph walked, reading his newspaper so avidly that he narrowly avoided colliding with a passer-by.

‘Well, I’ll be damned!’ he muttered.

He hurried back, racing through the bookshop to where Victor stood, holding a leather-bound volume.

‘I thought you were never coming back. Where’s my cigar?’ asked Victor.

‘Just listen to this, Boss! The dead woman at Killer’s Crossing had no shoes on! And guess what? She was dressed in red.’

‘Joseph, when will you get over your morbid interest in murders?’ groaned Victor.

‘But, Boss, it’s astonishing, because yesterday this strange fellow came in here with a red shoe and you’ll never guess what he’d found in it: a piece of the bookshop’s headed notepaper, and when Monsieur Mori saw it he turned so crimson I thought he was ill again!’

‘When Monsieur Mori saw what?’ Victor asked, exasperated.

‘The shoe! He sent me out to hail a cab while he got dressed quick as a flash. He was in a right old panic!’

‘And you let him go! Well done!’

‘Confound it! Am I a shop assistant or a nursemaid?’

‘Just calm down and tell me exactly what happened.’

‘Very well, I shall speak clearly to avoid confusion. The chap with the shoe reeked of goats and looked like a peasant. He talked so loudly that Monsieur Mori overheard him. I had no choice but to show him the shoe. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost!’

‘Do you know where he went?’

‘Saint-Mandé; 15 Chausée de l’Étang. That’s the address he shouted to the cabby.’

‘Where is this shoe?’

Victor carefully examined the slipper Joseph took from his pocket. On the inside he noticed the name of the manufacturer printed in gold lettering:

Dickins & Jones, Regent Street, London W1

‘Blimey! Made in England,’ Jojo breathed, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Do you think Monsieur Mori …? I mean he’s often been to London.’

‘Don’t talk such rubbish. Go and serve that lady. I’ll be back shortly,’ Victor said, pocketing the shoe.

‘Morbid interest, eh! People should practice what they preach,’ Joseph muttered, making his way over to the customer.

The cab dropped Victor in Rue de la République. He walked away from the Bastille-La Varenne railway line, the recent site of an appalling accident, and past the Saint-Mandé town hall. The rhythmic tapping of his cane on the pavement punctuated his thoughts.

This really is the limit! There’s no earthly reason for poking my nose into Kenji’s affairs. Naturally, anything that affects him concerns me, and I do find his peculiar behaviour worrying, but anxiety does not justify indiscretion. Admit it, Victor, you’ve once again fallen prey to your fondness for mysteries!

As he strolled past the fine villas, whose gardens stood in a row overlooking the lake and the Bois de Vincennes, he had a sudden urge to bring Tasha to this place. He recalled a line from a poem by Victor Hugo:

Connaître un pas qu’on aime et que jaloux on suit …

Did not the remains of the poet’s great love, Juliette Drouet, lie in the Saint-Mandé graveyard?

He read the brass plate on the railings of number 15:

C. BONTEMPS BOARDING SCHOOL

Private Establishment for Young Ladies

‘This is a strange place to keep a mistress,’ he muttered.

A plump, moon-faced woman of about forty greeted him. She was dressed in the style of the Empress Eugenie and wore her hair parted in the middle and drawn into a bun.

‘My respects, Madame; I am here on behalf of Monsieur Mori, my business associate.’

‘Oh! Are you a bookseller too? What an honour. Please come in. Dear Monsieur Mori! He seemed so upset yesterday. Mademoiselle Iris realised only a few moments after her godfather’s departure that he had left his cane behind. Your visit couldn’t be better timed; you will be able to return the precious object to him.’

Victor stood in front of a mantelpiece adorned with flounces and porcelain statues, desperately trying to gather his thoughts. Iris! Was he finally to meet the mysterious woman who had aroused his curiosity these past two years; the woman Kenji visited regularly in London but kept hidden from him? It had been months since Kenji had last ventured across the Channel and Victor had assumed their romance was over. Iris was the very young girl once glimpsed in a photograph taken at the Universal Exhibition, but whose face he simply could not remember.

Her godfather my eye! So this is where he keeps her locked up! Victor thought to himself.

‘Please take a seat,’ said Mademoiselle Bontemps, pointing to an ottoman. Monsieur …’

‘Legris. I should like to speak to Mademoiselle Iris. Here is my card.’

‘Oh! Well, I did not wish to appear suspicious, but …’

‘It is only natural.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so. You see I have my instructions. Of course, our boarders are free to walk about town; they watch over one another and report on each others’ deeds and conduct, but as far as conversing with strangers is concerned … Monsieur Mori never mentioned an associate. Have you worked together for long?’

‘I was three years old when my father first employed Monsieur Mori.’

Mademoiselle Bontemps lifted a plump hand to her mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.

‘Goodness, how extraordinary that he never once mentioned your name!’

‘He is a reserved gentleman.’

‘Such reserve is comparable with deceit! That said; judge not that you be not judged. Would you care for a macaroon?’

She held out a plate to him, which he declined with a smile. She helped herself generously before going to find Iris.

Victor was astonished to see a young girl, not more than seventeen, walk towards him. Her childlike features brought back the faded image of the photograph he had glimpsed without Kenji’s knowledge. She was pretty, possessed of an exotic beauty: olive skin, almond eyes and a dainty, delicately curved nose. Her dark hair, worn in braids tied with a ribbon at her neck, made her look even younger.

Surely it’s rather lecherous of Kenji, who’s fifty-two, to have such a young girl for a lover! I’d never have guessed. And he is attracted to women of an entirely different type: mature, shapely, provocative. His last lover, Ninon Delarme,11 would have turned the head of a saint … Who is this girl? Might she really be his goddaughter? Or even his daughter? If so, then her mother must be a European. His daughter! Impossible! He would have told me!

He felt uneasy, afraid of committing an indiscretion. It seemed best to go straight to the point.

‘Good day, Mademoiselle. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Victor Legris, an associate of …’

‘What a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Legris. Godfather has often spoken of you!’ cried Iris.

‘Oh! I assumed … Mademoiselle Bontemps did not know of my existence.’

‘My godfather doesn’t tell everybody everything! He loves to shroud himself in mystery. I’m sure it’s because he reads so many novels. I rarely read them myself; I avoid filling my head with fantasies. The day I leave this boarding school, I shall start to look after him, bring him down to earth a little! Nothing bad has happened to him, I hope?’

‘He is in perfect health. He is concerned about you, that is all.’

‘Why? I explained to him about the shoes.’

Victor handed her the single slipper that had been stuffed in his pocket. Iris took it, trying to conceal the flicker of emotion that crossed her face. She fingered the marks Berlaud’s fangs had made.

‘Yes, I lent them to Élisa, a schoolmate. She insisted – even though they were too wide for her. It’s odd that she should have lost one. How featherbrained she is!’

‘This piece of paper was inside.’

‘I know. My idea was to make an inner sole to stop her foot from slipping out. She wanted to look elegant and … If I had known it would create such trouble …’

She blushed as she handed the shoe back to Victor, who sensed that she was lying.

‘And where is your friend?’

‘At her mother’s house.’

‘Are you sure?’

He started at her so intently that she began to lose her nerve.

‘Oh! Monsieur Legris, please don’t mention it to anybody! Élisa trusts me. She begged me to help her, so I told Mademoiselle Bontemps that while she was out Élisa’s mother had telephoned to say that she was unwell and asked that her daughter go to her immediately. Mademoiselle Bontemps believed me.’

‘What is the man’s name?’

She looked at him, aghast.

‘What is her lover’s name?’ Victor repeated.

‘Gaston. He’s very nice. He came secretly to Trouville with us.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘Élisa hasn’t told me his address. But she said she likes his place because she can hear the wolves howling from his bedroom.’

‘What wolves?’

‘That’s all she told me. Please, Monsieur Legris, my godfather must not find out about this. He would be terribly angry.’

‘Is this the first time you have covered for her?’

‘The second; she promised she’d be back on Saturday.’

‘Saturday – that’s tomorrow. I will be discreet, but if your friend doesn’t return tomorrow … Do your parents live abroad?’

Before Iris could reply, there was a knock at the door and Mademoiselle Bontemps bustled in carrying a tea tray.

‘It is time for your piano lesson, Iris. Mademoiselle Pluchard is waiting for you. Monsieur Legris, I thought that with this damp weather you might enjoy a cup of Earl Grey tea. Monsieur Mori orders it for us from London.’

As Iris took her leave she filled the teacups with the steaming brew and stacked a second saucer with biscuits. To his horror, Victor found himself, hands laden and mouth full, sitting next to the mistress of the house, who had planted herself demurely on the ottoman.

‘Are you acquainted with Élisa’s background? Monsieur Mori wonders whether it is appropriate for his goddaughter to keep her company,’ he managed to ask through a mouthful of biscuit.

‘The little Fourchon girl!’ exclaimed Mademoiselle Bontemps. ‘I do not see why not. She’s a charming girl, and well-liked. Yes, I grant the mother sings, but …’

Victor recalled one of Kenji’s proverbs: ‘When the monkey is ignorant he feigns understanding and soon knows everything’, and nodded knowingly as he made an effort to swallow a last mouthful.

‘Yes, the singer.’

Mademoiselle Bontemps chortled.

‘A singer? Don’t make me laugh! L’Eldorado is hardly an opera house, Monsieur Legris; you might as well compare chalk with cheese! She sings those Andalusian popular songs.’

‘What songs are they?’

‘You know, those rather soppy love songs filled with blue skies and dark-haired beauties with flashing eyes, with lovers called Pedro and heroines Paquita.’

‘Does she use the name Fourchon when she performs?’

‘Of course she doesn’t. She uses a stage name, which I have promised not to reveal. It’s a professional secret,’ whispered Mademoiselle Bontemps, who having closed the gap with a surreptitious sideways shuffle was now pressing up against Victor. ‘Would you care for an almond biscuit? Here, try these delicious mint-flavoured wafers. I do love sugar! I can’t resist sweet things. I need tying up! There I go again, giving in!’ she said, and gobbled down three wafers in quick succession. ‘I can’t tell you Madame Fourchon’s stage name, but I might let you guess at my own first name. Aren’t you curious to know what the ‘C’ on my brass plate stands for, Monsieur Legris? What is the mystery contained therein? Camille? Charlotte? Celestine? Do you give up? Corymbe! Do you like it?’

‘Oh indeed!’ said Victor, shifting imperceptibly away from her. ‘It is worthy of a tragic actor. I’ll wager Madame Fourchon’s is far more commonplace.’

‘It cannot hope to compete with mine. Though it is certainly flowery and eye-catching,’ she added, with a beguiling smile. ‘It is curious that we should be discussing this lady and her daughter! I am about to lose a boarder; Élisa is leaving us. Her mother has decided to take her away. I received a letter announcing the bad news this morning. Ah, life does not spare us women on our own, Monsieur Legris. We must struggle to make ends meet!’

She puffed up like a balloon and let out a deep sigh. This was too much for Victor, who rose to his feet. Mademoiselle Bontemps, saddened by the abrupt nature of his departure, followed him outside. He had already reached the railings around the garden when she came waddling after him.

‘Monsieur Mori’s cane! You were about to leave without it!’

Hampered by the two canes, Victor made his way in the direction of the town hall, feeling a mixture of relief and disappointment. If Élisa were at her mother’s, Joseph’s theory about the dead woman found at Killer’s Crossing didn’t hold up. He chuckled at the boy’s penchant for fiction, and paused for a moment in the middle of the road: the woman with the disfigured face had been wearing no shoes, yet the paper said nothing about her age. Élisa had lost one of her shoes. It could be a simple coincidence … Iris had mentioned this fellow Gaston. But could he trust her after she had confessed to lying? Above all else, what intrigued Victor the most was Kenji’s behaviour. Why was he keeping his supposed goddaughter locked away in Saint-Mandé?

Back at the bookshop, Victor rearranged the chairs left out by the Friends of Old Paris, who had gone with Kenji to whet their whistles at the Temps Perdu. He was obliged to wait until Joseph had concluded the sale of ten duodecimo volumes of Boccace’s Fables, published in London in 1779, before he could satisfy his curiosity.

‘What were the exact words of the man who came here yesterday to return the famous shoe?’

‘Do you mean that strange fellow? Well, you’re in luck, Boss, because after he’d gone I jotted down a few things in my notebook. Here we are: his dog had stolen a hunk of meat from some lions – in my opinion lions mean a circus. I asked where he lived and he said Ruelle des Culettes, round the corner from Rue Croule-something.’

‘Brilliant! Clear as day! Total gibberish!’

‘Well, it’s not my fault if Monsieur Mori interrupted me to get him a cab and I lost the thread! As for the man’s identity, I am certain his name is Grégoire Mercier and he was well known around Rue Croule-something.’

‘The dog had stolen a hunk of meat from some lions …’ echoed Victor, recalling Iris’s words: ‘You can hear the wolves howling from his bedroom.’ Could the two things be connected?

‘Did you discover anything about the shoe, Boss?’

‘Nothing of any importance,’ Victor called down from the stairs.

‘That’s right, don’t be grateful. Just squeeze the facts out of me so you can play the sleuth! Fine then, you asked for it, from now on my lips are sealed!’ muttered Jojo, and then broke his word the moment Victor called out to him.

‘You haven’t by any chance seen the Paris street directory?’

‘It’s upstairs on Monsieur Mori’s desk!’

Victor easily found Rue Croulebarbe, Ruelle des Reculettes, in the Bièvre district, the 13th arrondissement, and came back down, whistling jauntily. He ignored the sullen look on Joseph’s face and enquired kindly how he was getting along with his book, Love and Blood.

‘I already told you, but I guess I’ll have to say it again because you clearly weren’t listening: I have abandoned the project.’

‘That seems a shame. You should have seen it through.’

‘That’s right, tell me I’m lazy! Well, I chose to give it up and I have my reasons, and I don’t see why I should share them with you since you’re not in the habit of sharing!’

Victor was about to ask whether his lack of inspiration was related to Valentine de Salignac’s marriage when Kenji walked into the bookshop. He nodded briefly at Victor, reminded Joseph he had a delivery to make and went to sit at his desk, which was stacked with index cards ready for making up a new catalogue. Victor lit a cigar and exhaled a puff of bluish smoke. What was in Joseph’s notes? he asked himself Ah, yes! A dog that stole meat from some lions; lions and howling wolves …

‘Where might one find lions and wolves in Paris?’

‘In the Botanical Gardens,’ replied Kenji, burying his nose in his handkerchief. ‘You aren’t considering breeding them, are you? If you show the same enthusiasm as you do for running a bookshop, the enterprise is doomed to failure. Would you mind smoking that outside?’

‘What have I done to make you and Joseph gripe at me so? Well, if that’s the way you want it, I shall leave you in peace.’

Victor buttoned up his frock coat to protect his Photo-Secret from the spitting rain. He had brought it with him to give the impression of self-assurance. He passed Hôtel de la Reine-Blanche and went down a flight of dilapidated steps. At the beginning of Rue Gobelins he paused, overcome by ammoniacal fumes. He held his breath until he reached a narrow quay where he leant on a parapet wall overlooking the River Bièvre, realm of the tanners and dyers. Shades of yellow, green and red mingled in its waters, producing a brownish-looking soup that formed here and there into a muddy froth. The water glistened with golden-brown flecks like the fish oil floating on the surface of the murky broth served up at Maubert’s cheap eateries. Victor, feeling nauseous, turned round to face a building whose ill-repaired façade was covered in inscriptions scored by knives. A heart with an arrow through it appeared to be telling him to go left.

He obeyed without demur, turning down Passage Moret, where an incongruent cluster of rickety dwellings with wooden balconies faintly evoked Spain. People were busy at work under the hangars where the flayed hides of animals hung on ropes to dry. Scrawny-looking dogs and cats prowled the wet cobblestones observing the arrival of carts and groups of curriers.

All along the winding river bank, washerwomen had set down their tubs by the water’s edge and were singing as they pounded their shirts. Children played at skimming stones, and one held a stick with a piece of string attached to the end, as though fishing. Victor wondered what a fish that had managed to survive in that foul water might look like. Instinctively he took out his camera to photograph the children, but he felt awkward, and so instead turned his attention to the young fisherman. He was filthy and ragged and looked no older than six. The baggy clothes he wore made him appear even scrawnier.

‘Are the fish biting today?’

‘Not a whole lot. But I did catch this,’ said the child, holding up a smoked herring.

‘Are you sure you caught it?’ Victor asked, amused.

‘Shh! I pinched it from old Mère Guédon while she was stuffing her mattress. I climbed through her kitchen window. She won’t miss it.’

A one-eyed tomcat meowed as it came over to beg.

‘Get lost, Gambetta; this ain’t for no cats – it’s for Gustin.’

‘Is that your name? Tell me, Gustin, how would you like to earn a franc?’

‘Wouldn’t I half!’ cried the boy, stealing a glance at the washerwomen.

‘Do you know of a goatherd who lives around here?’

‘I certainly do. Old Père Mercier! He dosses round the corner from here.’

‘Show me the way.’

They left a trail of footprints in the reddish dust as they walked through warehouses where the hide and leather goods were stored, past steaming vats and piles of acrid-smelling tanbark. Here and there, a weeping willow formed a shady corner, allowing Victor a moment’s respite from the dismal surroundings. They arrived at Rue Reculettes, where he was relieved to discover what looked almost like country cottages alongside the workers’ hovels.

‘That’s it, over there where it says “cobbler”. I’ve got to look sharp. If I’m late helping my brothers tan that hide I’ll be the one getting the tanning from my dad – he’s on the booze today.’

‘Take this.’ Victor handed him a coin, which the boy snatched greedily.

‘Blimey! A whole franc!’

He wanted to ask the man if he had made a mistake, but Victor had already disappeared inside.

Each new smell eclipses the next, thought Victor as he lowered himself on to the stool Grégoire Mercier had offered him. The man looked distinctly un-Parisian in a smock, trousers tucked into leather leggings and clogs. As he watched the goats standing meekly in a row while they were being mucked out, Victor felt as though he’d been magically transported to the heart of the Beauce region to the south of Paris.

‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Monsieur. There we are. It’s a rotten job. I toil like a slave all the livelong day. Thanks to these little goats and their milk, I earn my crust. Lie down, Berlaud! So you’re the owner of the bookshop? I thought you’d come about the reward. I can’t tell you any more than I told your assistant.’

‘There’s just one thing I wanted to clarify. Did your dog find the shoe in the Botanical Gardens?’

Grégoire Mercier frowned, his honest brow creasing into furrows.

‘I don’t like to admit it, as dogs aren’t allowed,’ he murmured, stroking Berlaud’s head roughly.

‘Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.’

‘Well, all right. My rounds take me there. It’s my cousin Basile from back home, Basile Popêche; he’s got kidney stones. I give him Pulchérie’s milk. She’s that one over there, second from the right, the white one with a black goatee. She’s all blown up like a balloon because she’s expecting. I mix the sapwood of a lime tree with her hay to make her milk into a diuretic.’

‘Oh! So your animals are a sort of walking pharmacy. Are these remedies effective?’ Victor enquired sceptically.

‘Ask around and you’ll find out. In any case no one must know about Basile being poorly or he’ll lose his job, which only pays a pittance anyway. He looks after the wild animals. People don’t appreciate what hard work it is, Monsieur. My goats are a piece of cake in comparison. Poor Popêche and his partner have to muck out sixty-five pens containing a hundred carnivores, plus the three bear pits. Holy Virgin, the racket is deafening! It’s back-breaking work to scrub down those floors every day. And it breaks my heart to see those poor animals caged up like that until the end of their days. At least my nanny goats go into town, and when the cold weather comes I wrap a blanket around …’

‘What time were you at the Botanical Gardens?’

‘That was yesterday, on my way from Quai de la Tournelle, so it must have been about ten or eleven o’clock. Oh, I work all hours, Monsieur! It beats being in the army, but I’ve got to keep moving if I’m to keep my customers happy. Money doesn’t grow on trees, does it? Berlaud must have found the shoe near the Botanical Gardens. That dog’s so good with my goats I put up with his fancies. When he has a yearning to run off, he won’t come to heel, no matter how much I yawl.’

‘Yawl?’

‘You know, whistle. Ah, you fickle beast, you give me the run around, but I’ll miss you when you’re gone!’ he muttered, scratching the backs of Berlaud’s ears as the dog closed its eyes with contentment.

After he had left, it occurred to Victor that he should have given the goatherd a coin, but he did not have the energy to climb back up all those stairs. On a piece of paper he jotted down the words:

Basile Popêche, lion house at Botanical Gardens, Grègoire Mercier’s cousin.

He could question the man later if necessary.

The rain had stopped. As he walked back through Rue Croulebarbe he searched in vain for little Gustin. All he could see were groups of apprentices busy plunging hides into vats of alum or scraping skins stretched over trestle tables. If he was serious about his project of documenting child labour, he would have to come back one morning when the light was good.

The River Bièvre disappeared under Boulevard Arago. Victor walked up Avenue des Gobelins and turned off into Rue Monge. A sign caught his eye: ‘Impasse de la Photographie’. Was this an omen? And if so was it a good or a bad one? He chose to smile at it, and yet he felt a lingering anxiety about the young woman found strangled at the crossroads, and about little Élisa. He jotted something else down on the piece of paper where he’d noted Basile Popêche’s name:

L’Eldorado: Madame Fourchon sings there, under a flowery name that catches the eye.