‘That’s Berthier.’
‘Are you Monsieur Berthier? I’m looking for Martin Lorson – it’s important.’
The giant nodded and showed him to a courtyard surrounded by small huts.
‘The third from the left.’
Victor had to knock at the worm-eaten door for a long time before it was inched open.
‘Monsieur Lorson? Martin Lorson?’
The man, as fat at the front as he was behind, peered at him with bulging eyes from beneath a moth-eaten old top hat.
‘I’m a friend of Monsieur Gamache’s. I’ve come to ask you about the terrible scene you witnessed. As a detective, I shall be able to ensure your safety.’
Feeling suspicious, Martin Lorson blocked the door with his foot.
‘Why should I believe you? Show me your badge.’
‘I’m a private investigator, and I work freelance, Monsieur Lorson. I’m not employed by the police, but you are free to enquire into my good character – here’s my card.’
‘You work in a bookshop?’
‘Yes, I do. It’s up to you, Monsieur Lorson. You’ve got my address,’ said Victor, doffing his hat.
Martin Lorson considered the card for a moment, and then his visitor, who was walking away now.
‘Monsieur, wait! Come back!’
The hut stank of manure. Victor forced himself not to cover his nose with his handkerchief. They remained standing in the dim light.
‘Will Gamache really answer for you?’
‘Yes, I told you, he’s a friend of mine.’
‘What’s his first name?’
‘Alfred.’
Victor’s instantaneous reply dispelled Martin Lorson’s suspicion. He heaved a sigh and whispered, ‘You won’t go telling the police?’
‘You have my word.’
‘You haven’t got a cigarette, by any chance?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’d give anything for a few puffs.’ With his hand outstretched, Martin Lorson suddenly became still. ‘Excuse my bad manners, but I’ve been living off what I can steal for nearly four days now, I haven’t got a penny left and I’ve lost my job. Would you mind …?’
‘Keep the packet.’
‘I’m sorry to be indiscreet, Monsieur … Legris, but I’d like to know why you’re concerned for my safety.’
‘The reason may surprise you. I’m not only a bookseller, I also write stories for serials in the newspapers, and I’m interested in unsolved cases. I use them to test investigation methods that I want to write about. I don’t ask for any money, naturally.’
‘I’m extremely grateful to you,’ said Martin Lorson.
‘And, now that you’ve questioned me, I hope you won’t mind if I ask you something in return?’
‘Not at all.’
‘What exactly did you see?’
Martin Lorson lit a second cigarette.
‘I need to talk about this, get it off my chest. I’ll tell you the story as I remember it. But just because I say it happened a certain way, that doesn’t mean that it was actually like that – I was awfully drunk and it was dark …’
He described the masked woman playing hopscotch, the sudden appearance of the man in the felt hat, the murder, the flight of the assassin, followed by his immediate and incomprehensible return. He mumbled, swallowing half his words. When he had finished, he rummaged in the pockets of his threadbare suit and pulled out a chain with a medallion hanging from it, on which there was an engraving of a unicorn shown in profile, seated on its haunches and surrounded by a black border.
‘I picked this horrible beast up next to the corpse. Please take it – it gives me the creeps. It’s a talisman and it has some kind of malign influence,’ he said in a low voice.
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Ever since I picked it up it’s been bringing me bad luck.’
Slowly, concealing his excitement at being the first to see this concrete clue, Victor put the trinket in his pocket.
‘Are you going to stay living here for long?’
‘Why?’ asked Martin Lorson, becoming suspicious again.
‘I might need to contact you. This investigation still has a long way to go.’
‘I’ll get in touch with you.’
‘I’ll only contact you if it’s absolutely necessary,’ Victor insisted. ‘Would it be of any use to you if I …’
He held out a five-franc piece. Martin Lorson hesitated, took the coin and then, looking shamefaced, made as if to give it back, but Victor said, ‘No, keep it.’
‘Thank you. What a life. I haven’t always lived like this, Monsieur, if only you knew—’
‘I had guessed as much. Goodbye.’
‘Freeloaders, and women’s meddling, that’s what brings down a ministry!’ Lorson muttered to Victor’s receding back.
Victor had nearly reached the exit to the abattoirs when he came across a mob of people. He stopped, unable to believe his eyes. A group of men and women were waiting their turn to sip from a bowl of red liquid that a butcher was holding out to them.
Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. He had never seen anything as bad as this.
‘Get in line!’ a policeman warned him.
Victor made a faint gesture of refusal. He felt as though he were losing his grip on reality. He leant against the railings and closed his eyes. He had heard of this practice: a dose of warm, fresh blood was reputed to cure nervous disorders and tuberculosis.
Trembling, and revolted by the sickly smell, he walked along past a cold store and found himself back at the Ourcq canal. A stray dog eyed him for a moment before going back to foraging among the contents of a bin. The snow had stopped falling.
*
Kenji had been careful not to let his irritation show when, for the hundredth time, his business partner had not arrived at work until almost midday. Kenji had sat down at his desk and carried on working imperturbably on his spring catalogue. Although on the outside he was a picture of serenity, on the inside he was outraged.
‘No respect! Part of the furniture! I’m just part of the furniture! Everyone has abandoned me!’
Iris, his precious daughter and the centre of his universe, had become a stranger to him, enamoured of his shop assistant, who was infatuated with himself: Joseph had become even more insolent since his marriage. A little brat would soon arrive and turn the household upside down with its screaming and its tantrums. Euphrosine Pignot had extended her despotic rule over the whole family. And, to cap it all, Victor clearly begrudged the time he spent working in the bookshop. It seemed to Kenji that growing old was indeed like swallowing a bitter draught of tea. Was this a transition period? Had he been alone for too long? He felt himself becoming intellectually weaker, as the passing years relentlessly sapped his enthusiasm, and yet he still wanted to see more of life.
The voice of youth seemed to whisper: ‘Throw off your ties! Live your life!’ Torn between his love for his family and his desire for independence, he could not quite resolve to leave Rue des Saints-Pères and the Elzévir bookshop, the fruit of so