The plump woman’s double chin quivered as she examined the finished menu based on a rough draft. She tried to pay the artist, but he refused with a smile.
‘A glass of beer will do, Madame Milent. Just carry on being my eyes and ears.’
‘That goes without saying, Monsieur Daglan. The more I see of your upstrokes and downstrokes the more I’m convinced you’ll make the ministry one day. I’m ashamed of my spidery scrawl.’
‘Come, Madame Milent, you’re the queen of cordon bleu. It’s the quality of your cooking that matters, not your handwriting.’
Frédéric Daglan finished off his beer and put away his things. By mid-morning, the main room at Madame Milent’s establishment in Rue de la Chapelle became the exclusive domain of carters transporting heavy loads, and cab drivers from a nearby rank. The back room, which was screened off by a thin partition and had a secret connecting door to the courtyard of the adjoining police station, would shortly be occupied by assistant chief of police Raoul Pérot, his colleagues, and a few literary friends.
Frédéric Daglan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said goodbye to the landlady. After he’d gone, she remained thoughtful.
‘What a handsome fellow, so charming, so elegant! Ah! If only I were twenty years younger and forty pounds lighter …’
The sun shone weakly on the peeling façades of the buildings and the sky was dappled with fleecy clouds as far as Plaine Saint-Denis.
Like shaving cream, thought Frédéric Daglan.
It was still quiet at that time of the morning after the workshops had opened. He felt euphoric during this delightful lull when the street was the preserve of delivery men and tramps. It was as if he had cast off the shackles of everyday mediocrity that gripped the city. He was master of his own destiny and, even though he’d had the odd taste of prison, no bars had ever really threatened his independence; his inner rejection of any form of authority delivered him from slavery.
‘The man who can clip my wings hasn’t been born yet,’ he muttered, walking towards the tiny public garden swarming with children, a perfect spot from which to watch without being seen.
He sat down on a bench and opened the morning paper. There it was, on page two:
ENAMELLIST MURDERED
He skimmed the article. The police were making no headway. The only clue was a visiting card with an unintelligible message on it about amber, musk, incense and leopard spots. The attack had happened so fast that the only witness was unable to describe the killer.
Frédéric Daglan suddenly felt sick.
‘Of all the filthy tricks!’
A ball landed at his feet. As he sent it flying back, the pages of his newspaper scattered around him, rustling like dead leaves. He walked away. In Rue de la Chapelle, the advertising hoardings on the blank end-walls of the buildings caught his eye. His gaze wandered from a giant mustard pot to a magnificent red Lucifer holding a pair of bellows and spraying a jet of sulphur:
VICAT INSECTICIDE POWDER
The louse! The dirty louse! How dare he! He would crush him.
Joseph paused, picked up a copy of Boule de Suif and placed it between On the Water and A Life then walked out onto the pavement and stepped back to judge the overall effect. Monsieur Legris would be pleased. The window display was a tribute to the works of Guy de Maupassant, who had died the previous day.
With no customers in the shop and all the deliveries done, Joseph felt free to relax. His favourite pastime was updating his scrapbooks, which were stuffed with strange articles taken from various newspapers. He leant on the counter and began going through the pile of newspapers in front of him, pausing only every now and then to take a bite of his apple.
He picked up the copy of Le Passe-partout that he’d been reading on the day of the Bérenger protests, and began cutting out a news item.
ENAMELLIST MURDERED
There are still no clues in the case of the murder victim, Léopold Grandjean, stabbed by an unknown assailant in Rue Chevreul on 21 June. The sole witness is unable to describe the killer, having seen him only from behind. The police discovered a mysterious note on the victim’s body, the content of which we have decided to print for the benefit of our discerning readers: ‘Like amber, musk, benzoin and incense, May has made of ours a solitary pursuit. Can an Ethiopian change the colour of his skin any more than a leopard his spots?’
Our reporter Isidore Gouvier thinks the references are probably literary. The police …
The stair creaked. Joseph’s heart started pounding. Although Iris had been avoiding the shop since their break-up, he both longed for her to appear and dreaded it. He soon recognised Monsieur Mori’s heavy gait and hastily crammed his scrapbook and cuttings into the back of a drawer.
‘A mill without grain turns its sails in vain,’ remarked Kenji – pretending not to have noticed his assistant, whom he only spoke to now when absolutely necessary.
He sat at his desk, intent on finishing drafting a note.
‘What’s the boss droning on about mills for?’ Joseph muttered. ‘Oh! I get it! It’s a warning. He’s saying I should get a move on or else … Well, he can stuff his metaphors, and what’s more …’
‘Still carping?’ whispered Victor, emerging from the stockroom.
‘You crept up on me, that’s not fair!’
Kenji raised his head; if he had overheard he didn’t let it show.
‘Come and have a look, Victor. I’ve written a short description of the manuscript I left with Pierre Andrésy. I mean to give it to whoever is in charge of the case. If there’s any chance some of the books have been saved …’
Touty Namèh or The Parrot’s Stories: a collection of fifty-two short stories by Zya Eddin Nachcehehy. An octavo volume with a red vellum cover embossed with a bouquet of gilt flowers. The book contains 298 pages illustrated with 229 miniatures and was previously in the possession of Mohammed Hassan Chah Djihan and Omra Itimad Khan respectively.
‘I’m afraid you may have to kiss it goodbye,’ said Victor.
‘I’m finding that hard to accept. It’s such a rare volume and I’d all but sold it to Colonel de Réauville for one thousand five hundred francs. I’ll have to give him back his deposit.’
Hunched over the order book, Joseph made a face, and muttered under his breath, ‘Isn’t that just typical of the boss, always counting out his grains of rice? If one went missing he’d probably commit hara-kiri.’
‘Keep your malicious thoughts to yourself, Joseph, or go and join the ranks of Blanche de Cambrésis and her band of detractors,’ Victor warned.
Unperturbed, Kenji had begun sorting out the index cards for his next catalogue. The door bell tinkled and a man in a dark frock coat stood staring at them quizzically.
‘Is this the Mori–Legris bookshop? My name’s Inspector Lefranc. I’ve come to take Monsieur Mori and Monsieur Legris down to police headquarters to identify certain items recovered from the body of a bookbinder by the name of Andrésy, first name Pierre,’ he said, without pausing for breath.
Victor and Kenji donned their hats and followed the man, leaving Joseph behind.
‘I see, so I count for nothing! Even though Monsieur Andrésy and I discussed everything. He wasn’t prejudiced. We confided in one another, I liked him. But I’m just a lowly employee. Good for watching the shop while they strut about like a couple of peacocks! Well, the bosses had better watch out or the worker will down tools!’
Inspector