In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner
Authors: Claude Izner
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sense, Joseph! Pierre Andrésy died on 5 July so the date of the funeral couldn’t possibly be 25 May. I don’t suppose they’d hold his corpse for burial until next spring. You really shouldn’t believe everything you read in the newspapers.’
Narrowing his eyes, Joseph snatched up his cap and the parcel of books.
‘Well, if that’s the way it is, I’m off. It’s stifling in here!’
Jojo stormed out. Victor leant on the counter, resting his chin on his clenched fists. A shadow danced before him, beckoning. No! He wouldn’t give in to his old demon. He’d promised Tasha: no more cases.
‘ Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’ Jojo murmured, quoting Dante.
He had got shot of the parcel at Mademoiselle Flavignol’s house and, acting on a whim, had dipped into his own purse for the cab fare to Porte de la Chapelle.
After wandering about for quarter of an hour looking for the phantom cemetery, he asked directions from an old tramp who was sharing a piece of cheese rind with his dog.
‘Cross the ramparts and go up Rue de la Chapelle then turn off when you reach Chemin des Poissonniers. You’ll find your city of the dead at Saint-Ouen!’
Joseph wandered through a maze of rusty sooty railway tracks, lost his way, then reached Rue du Pré-Maudit, 29 which he left as fast as he could. He walked back past buildings covered in obscene graffiti, seedy hotels and vacant lots overgrown with wild oats, where circus strongmen were rehearsing. Behind the Ceinture line station stood the grim bulk of a railway arch. He passed some alarming figures: ragged girls on their way to buy groceries; pimps wearing espadrilles, a cigarette hanging out of their mouths; a group of vagrants, shivering after a night spent under the stars, heading for the slopes of the old ramparts.
Beyond this Wall of China, he found himself surrounded by a patchwork of factories and kitchen gardens. The gardens were so verdant and filled with flowers that, had it not been for the tall factory chimneys marking out the road, he would have believed himself transported to the countryside. Butterflies danced above the cabbages and buttercups, and a few cows stood in a meadow.
A funeral procession jolted down the avenues of the cemetery, the hangings on the hearse covered in a film of grey dust. The coffin was lowered, the family dispersed, the gravediggers filled in the hole.
Joseph decided that rather than search for a hypothetical grave, he would ask the keeper. The man consulted a register: there was no Pierre Andrésy buried there.
Joseph turned on his heel, muttering to himself.
‘This needs investigating, there’s definitely something fishy going on here. That was no typo. I’m going to pop in to Le Figaro, if only to annoy the boss.’
Caught up in his reflections, he walked past a small drinking fountain where a man who looked a little too smartly dressed for the neighbourhood had stopped to quench his thirst. A few small children holding jugs waited their turn.
Frédéric Daglan wiped his moustache, and walked over to a bistro where he sat down at an outside table and ordered a coffee. He pulled three newspapers from his pocket and began reading one of them. As he perused the second, he nearly sent his cup flying. Between a domestic incident and a drowning was a report about the disappearance of a printer named Paul Theneuil. His book-keeper had found a mysterious message in his business correspondence that mentioned a leopard.
A panting dog stopped to lap at the water running along the gutter. The whole world was thirsty.
Victor skimmed a pebble across the lake, disturbing the smooth surface of the water and scattering the ducks, which quacked furiously. He didn’t pause to admire the reproduction of the Temple of the Sybil at Tivoli perched on the summit of an artificial cliff, but walked on towards the exit from Buttes-Chaumont. Joseph had had the nerve to return to the shop late in the afternoon with a smirk on his
Narrowing his eyes, Joseph snatched up his cap and the parcel of books.
‘Well, if that’s the way it is, I’m off. It’s stifling in here!’
Jojo stormed out. Victor leant on the counter, resting his chin on his clenched fists. A shadow danced before him, beckoning. No! He wouldn’t give in to his old demon. He’d promised Tasha: no more cases.
‘ Abandon all hope, ye who enter here,’ Jojo murmured, quoting Dante.
He had got shot of the parcel at Mademoiselle Flavignol’s house and, acting on a whim, had dipped into his own purse for the cab fare to Porte de la Chapelle.
After wandering about for quarter of an hour looking for the phantom cemetery, he asked directions from an old tramp who was sharing a piece of cheese rind with his dog.
‘Cross the ramparts and go up Rue de la Chapelle then turn off when you reach Chemin des Poissonniers. You’ll find your city of the dead at Saint-Ouen!’
Joseph wandered through a maze of rusty sooty railway tracks, lost his way, then reached Rue du Pré-Maudit, 29 which he left as fast as he could. He walked back past buildings covered in obscene graffiti, seedy hotels and vacant lots overgrown with wild oats, where circus strongmen were rehearsing. Behind the Ceinture line station stood the grim bulk of a railway arch. He passed some alarming figures: ragged girls on their way to buy groceries; pimps wearing espadrilles, a cigarette hanging out of their mouths; a group of vagrants, shivering after a night spent under the stars, heading for the slopes of the old ramparts.
Beyond this Wall of China, he found himself surrounded by a patchwork of factories and kitchen gardens. The gardens were so verdant and filled with flowers that, had it not been for the tall factory chimneys marking out the road, he would have believed himself transported to the countryside. Butterflies danced above the cabbages and buttercups, and a few cows stood in a meadow.
A funeral procession jolted down the avenues of the cemetery, the hangings on the hearse covered in a film of grey dust. The coffin was lowered, the family dispersed, the gravediggers filled in the hole.
Joseph decided that rather than search for a hypothetical grave, he would ask the keeper. The man consulted a register: there was no Pierre Andrésy buried there.
Joseph turned on his heel, muttering to himself.
‘This needs investigating, there’s definitely something fishy going on here. That was no typo. I’m going to pop in to Le Figaro, if only to annoy the boss.’
Caught up in his reflections, he walked past a small drinking fountain where a man who looked a little too smartly dressed for the neighbourhood had stopped to quench his thirst. A few small children holding jugs waited their turn.
Frédéric Daglan wiped his moustache, and walked over to a bistro where he sat down at an outside table and ordered a coffee. He pulled three newspapers from his pocket and began reading one of them. As he perused the second, he nearly sent his cup flying. Between a domestic incident and a drowning was a report about the disappearance of a printer named Paul Theneuil. His book-keeper had found a mysterious message in his business correspondence that mentioned a leopard.
A panting dog stopped to lap at the water running along the gutter. The whole world was thirsty.
Victor skimmed a pebble across the lake, disturbing the smooth surface of the water and scattering the ducks, which quacked furiously. He didn’t pause to admire the reproduction of the Temple of the Sybil at Tivoli perched on the summit of an artificial cliff, but walked on towards the exit from Buttes-Chaumont. Joseph had had the nerve to return to the shop late in the afternoon with a smirk on his
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