Читать книгу Dr. Morelle at Midnight - Ernest Dudley - Страница 10

CHAPTER SIX

Miss Frayle hadn’t really meant to buy the Samurai sword.

Afterwards, in the train heading for the South, she could attribute it only to a combination of over-excitement an inflated sense of her own bargaining powers and the general noise and confusion of the Paris Flea Market.

She had been set on going there ever since her arrival in Paris. That it had taken her so many months to achieve her ambition she put down to the stuffiness of Madame Grimault, in whose apartment she had rented a room. Madame Grimault had frowned and raised her hands in dismay every time Miss Frayle suggested an outing. Either the season was wrong, or the time of day, or the place was too touristy, it would be vulgar to be seen gaping at it. Unwilling to offend her, Miss Frayle always gave in. But nothing would keep her from visiting the famous Flea Market. If need be, she would go alone.

She had gone alone. Cheeks pink with excitement, eyes gleaming behind her hornrims, she left the Metro at Porte de Clignancourt and looked about her for the market. What she saw had made her gasp. At a wide junction where several boulevards met was what appeared like a flattened bomb site on which stood rows of stalls. She felt indignant. Flea Market, she thought. Looks more like a moth-eaten Petticoat Lane.

She walked through the Marché Biron, the Marché Vernaison and the Cité Paul Bert. As she did so her first disappointment had begun to give away to excitement. Before her was a ghetto of streets and passageways, all crammed with treasure. Tiny shops and junk-laden stalls overflowed out of the narrow streets. Some vendors had spread blankets on the pavements, too poor to show their wares on stalls. Miss Frayle had been told there were about three thousand shops in the market. There seemed to be far more.

The market was jammed with people, sharp-eyed French housewives, tourists from all over the world, students, giggling girls, dealers. It was the dealers, she knew, who had made the market what it was today. It had started at the end of the last century when the rag-pickers who still search the dustbins of Paris every morning made their headquarters near the northern walls of the city. Miss Frayle had learned how they began the market and it was their reputation for being verminous which had gained it the name Marché aux Puces.

At the turn of the century tourists had discovered the place and begun to find amusement in observing the strange collection of rubbish in the stalls. It was not long before Paris antique dealers heard of it and they were swift to realize the potential value of the market. They began to rent lots there.

Nowadays, prosperous shopkeepers displayed fine wares, furniture, china, crystal, sometimes even an Old Master, Miss Frayle had been told, and many of the most expensive Paris shops kept branches in the Marché aux Puces.

Miss Frayle wandered from stall to stall, completely fascinated by the wild assortment of merchandise. Stall-holders shouted or cajoled. Here were fantastic bargains, they assured her. An ivory fan, a superb brass bedstead, a set of motor-car tyres, good as new, a stuffed owl in a cage. Miss Frayle got tired of shaking her head, murmuring: ‘Non merci,’ or: ‘Tas aujourd’hui.’ A small lank-haired man in a greasy gabardine jabbed at her with a dirty finger as she passed. ‘Vous manquez une parapluie, M’selle?’ he leered. He stared hopefully at the brilliant blue sky. ‘Le ciel va tomber.’

Colour rushed into Miss Frayle’s face. ‘Oh,’ she said, outraged. ‘You horrid little man.’ And she marched quickly away leaving him staring after her in bewilderment.

Umbrellas had a special meaning for Miss Frayle. When she had arrived in Paris she was warned it would be difficult to find accommodation. She soon found how true it was. She searched for a week but every cheap hotel she tried turned her away as soon as they heard she would be staying in Paris for a year. For, as she had found out, lower-class hotels are controlled by law and have to charge a price much lower than the daily rate for anyone staying longer than a month.

Miss Frayle had been desperate. She visited the students’ advisory office at the Sorbonne but when the two women sitting behind the counter heard what she wanted they hooted with laughter. ‘All the rooms on our books were taken months ago,’ one woman said, staring at Miss Frayle as if she were an imbecile. She returned miserably to her hotel where she was paying eight hundred francs a day simply for a room, without food. She would have to find a room for herself, she decided.

The next day she had set out. She left the Metro at the Odeon, walked along the Boulevard St. Germain and then turned towards Pont Neuf. She bought some cheap grapes in a little market and picked her way through the twisting little streets until she came to a narrow passageway, where she saw a small hotel.

It was a perfect setting, she thought enthusiastically. This was the Paris she had read about, little winding streets with buildings that must date back to the Revolution, and a colourful market round the corner. At one end of the cobbled passageway there was a café, next to it an épicerie. On the opposite corner a laundry. Blinking through the doorway, Miss Frayle had thought of Zola’s L’Assommoir.

A small boy ran past her pushing a hoop which bobbled and banged over the cobbles. This, thought Miss Frayle, is Paris. Without hesitation she marched into the hotel. The concierge was a little round woman who would have been improved by a visit to the laundry on the corner. Her hair was a grey bird’s nest and it seemed to tremble even more wispily when Miss Frayle asked for accommodation. She gaped at this sedate-looking girl. Then she pursed her lips as if about to say: ‘Non.’ But Miss Frayle looked at her so imploringly that the woman shrugged and led the way up a dark, narrow staircase to a room on the first floor.

A girl carrying a pencil-thin umbrella passed them on the landing. Much too blonde and over-dressed, Miss Frayle had decided disapprovingly. And I don’t much like the look of her boyfriend. Decidedly greasy. The concierge showed her into the room. It was small and sparsely furnished. There was a bed against the far wall, a wardrobe behind the door. A wobbly table stood in the middle of the room and there was a chest of drawers by the window. Miss Frayle was not dismayed. She observed that the room was clean and that the wash-basin had two taps, which promised hot water. ‘How much?’ she asked.

‘Four-hundred-and-fifty francs a day,’ the woman told her.

‘Can I use my oil-stove to cook in here?’

The woman shrugged. ‘You can do what you like, it makes no difference to me, just so long as you pay the rent.’

‘How long can I stay?’ asked Miss Frayle hesitantly, expecting to have her hopes dashed.

‘Just so long as you pay the rent.’ Indifferently.

‘More than a month? But what about—?’

‘I said as long as you like,’ the woman interrupted. ‘If the law is broken, that’s your business. I just want my money.’

Miss Frayle had blinked. A lawbreaker? What would Dr. Morelle think? However she was eager to take the room and the bargain was struck. She had moved in the next day, feeling highly elated. That night she went to bed early and fell asleep calculating how much she would save on rent and how she could economize by being able to cook her own food.

She had awoken suddenly. It was dark. She heard the sound of two people clumping up the stairs. They went up to the next floor and a door banged. A few minutes later a door on her own landing opened and she heard two people walk down the stairs and out into the street. Miss Frayle had dozed off. About half-an-hour later there were more footsteps on the stairs and the door of the adjoining room opened and shut. Miss Frayle put her head under the blankets but by now a regular traffic had started up and down the stairs.

She had sat up in bed with a weary sigh, wondering what on earth was happening. Sleep was impossible. She tried to read but she could not even settle to her book. Five minutes later there had sounded a tap on her own door.

Miss Frayle gave a frightened gasp. Who could it be? No one knew she lived here. She was about to get out of her bed to answer the door when there was another tap. An urgent male voice had whispered: ‘Mademoiselle, mademoiselle.’

Miss Frayle dived under the bed clothes and remained there quaking long after the friendly stranger had stopped trying to persuade her it would be fun if she would open the door to him. Emerging at last hot-faced from the blankets, Miss Frayle decided to complain to the concierge in the morning. However the first light of day comforted her and she soon fell asleep. When she awoke she rebuked herself for being hysterical and decided to say nothing.

At lunchtime when she arrived home from the morning lectures at the Sorbonne, Miss Frayle saw the over-blonde blonde again. This time she was with two other gaudily-dressed girls. There was no sign of rain, yet all three carried long thin umbrellas. And that evening Miss Frayle saw them again, standing on the corner of the passageway, umbrellas still in evidence. A man approached one of the girls. There was a short, sharp conversation, then the girl nodded amicably and the man followed her into the hotel.

Miss Frayle had felt herself turn scarlet. She turned away blinking through her spectacles, and then she had jumped as a hand touched her arm. ‘How dare you,’ she started, but it was the concierge.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Are you coming in?’

Angry words rose to Miss Frayle’s lips, then she thought helplessly she must sleep somewhere, and had followed the woman dumbly back to the hotel. As they entered three more girls came out. It was obvious enough what they were. Miss Frayle averted her eyes. Umbrellas, she had thought, as she walked nervously up to her room, must be their hallmark.

That night Miss Frayle pushed the chest of drawers up against her door. She had lain in bed listening to the noises. To make matters even more frightening, three men, all of them residents in the hotel, had in turn knocked hopefully at her door. She was thankful to have barred the entrance.

By six in the morning she could stand it no longer, she had dressed and begun packing. The ornaments she had bought to decorate the room, her kitchen utensils, books, clothes, were all packed and she was ready to leave by eight.

She sat through her lectures that day in a state of weary anxiety. Where was she to go? What was she to do?

The professor had mumbled on. Occasionally he paused in his lecture on nineteenth-century French literature, rested back on his heels, jutting his large stomach even further forward, and gazed round the circular amphitheatre to see how his students were reacting to his words. A few, seated at the front of the auditorium, scribbled fervently. Others were obviously less enthralled.

The professor was afflicted with a speech impediment and was difficult to hear. Students would gradually crane forward, only to reel back, deafened, as he burst forth into a quotation from Verlaine’s famous sonnet to Victor Hugo:

‘Nul parmi vos flatteurs d’aujourd’hui n’a connu Mieux que moi la fierté d’admirer votre gloire: Votre nom m’enivrait comme un nom de victoire, Votre oeuvre, je l’aimais d’un amour ingénu.’

‘Only time I can hear him is when he starts to declaim,’ a student next to Miss Frayle said. ‘Then he gives me heart-failure. I’m sure he does it to make sure we stay awake.’

Miss Frayle had giggled at her. ‘I can hardly understand a word. And I’m afraid my thoughts keep wandering.’

‘You don’t look up to much,’ the other had said frankly. ‘Anything wrong?’

Miss Frayle had blushed. ‘I’ll tell you about it afterwards,’ she said to the student. She had pulled herself together and given her attention to the lecture on nineteenth century French literature. The subject was among the most fascinating of her studies, a pity the professor was so bizarre.

As his voice boomed forth, Miss Frayle’s neighbour was groaning quietly. Miss Frayle had glanced at her, then somebody in the gallery moved and she looked up. The amphitheatre gallery was empty save for a sprinkling of students who sat there because they wanted to leave before the end. The doors of the lower auditorium were locked by a blue-suited porter as soon as a lecture began and opened only when it was over.

When the lecture ended, Miss Frayle had left with the other student, making their way through others of every conceivable nationality, Chinese, German, Italian, American, Swedish, Argentinian. Students came from all over the world to enrol for the Cours de Civilisation Français, a course run by the Sorbonne to give people from foreign countries a deeper understanding of France. For herself, Miss Frayle had hardly known which to choose for her diploma studies. She had settled for French literature and L’Histoire des Idées Françaises, and whenever she could find the time she attended lectures on other subjects.

‘Now then, what’s your trouble?’ the girl beside her said. ‘You didn’t hear a word of that lecture.’ They had turned the arched cornerway away from the Richelieu amphitheatre and went into the cloakroom where there was a kiosk at which chocolates, cigarettes and fruit were for sale. The girl hadn’t laughed when she’d told her about the umbrellas, how once again she was without a place to stay.

‘My aunt has a large apartment,’ the girl had said, ‘and I know she’d like a bit of company. I’ll take you to meet her if you like.’ She had interrupted Miss Frayle’s thanks. ‘We’ve time to go and see her before afternoon lectures, if we’re quick.’

And so it had been arranged, and Miss Frayle happily occupied a room in Madame Grimault’s spacious apartment.

But even now she could not view a long thin umbrella with equanimity.

Miss Frayle had searched the conglomeration of goods on the stalls of the Flea Market, she wanted to buy a very special present.

It was then that she made her first mistake. Opening her purse she took out a five-thousand franc note. A Moroccan in a red fez, who had his wares on a blanket in the kerb, smiled at her. He held up various objects and called on her to admire them. Then he pointed to a sword. ‘M’selle would perhaps be interested? The price is nothing, not a fraction of its real worth.’

Miss Frayle hadn’t been in the least interested, but she wished to be polite, and smiled back at him. Considerably encouraged, the Moroccan held up the sword so that M’selle could see the craftsmanship, the beauty of it. It was a genuine Samurai sword, he swore, stained with the blood of many battles. He went on to describe its astonishing history. Mesmerised by his gory tale, Miss Frayle listened, occasionally nodding.

Then, his sales talk abruptly finishing, the man said: ‘Vous êtes d’accord, M’selle.’

There seemed no reason why she should not agree, so Miss Frayle nodded. At once the man leapt to his feet, plucked the five-thousand franc note from her hand and ceremoniously handed her the sword, hilt first. Miss Frayle gaped at the thing helplessly. ‘Mais, je ne le veux pas.’

He raised outraged hands to heaven. ‘But you said you did want it,’ he said firmly. ‘I said, did you agree, and you nodded your head.’ He gave an elaborate shrug and turned away, washing his hands of the matter. Feeling very foolish Miss Frayle could only wander miserably off. She tried vainly to hide the sword, it seemed even more cumbersome and hideous than when she had first examined it.

How on earth could she pack it, she was thinking now as she left the Flea Market behind her. The prospect of travelling to Monte Carlo with a sword tucked under her arm was depressing. Then an even worse thought occurred to her. Whatever will Dr. Morelle say when he sees it, she wondered?