tragedy at Rue de la Vieille-Lanterne closely. He even said that he had been involved in some way. The poet had been dead for nearly seventy years by then and, frankly, the stranger didn’t look that decrepit. I thought he was pulling my leg. But later I checked the papers from February and March 1855 in detail and I had to admit that most of what he’d told me was true.’
Needless to say, I was finding it very difficult to take the journalist seriously.
‘Do you think he was some mad literary historian?’ was all I said.
Lacroix laughed. ‘Possibly. Anyway, before disappearing, this man entrusted me with a document which would greatly interestyou. If we manage to solve our case, I promise I’ll show it to you.’
There was a hint of irony in his smile. A new document? Handed over by a stranger at the top of Tour Saint-Jacques? Whatever next! Lacroix must be making fun of me.
‘It’s almost time for our meeting,’ I said, changing the subject.
I compared my pocket watch with the Swiss clock behind the reception desk. My watch was three minutes faster.
‘Yes. Actually, I think our friend Fourier is just arriving. Is your partner not here yet?’
‘James is not an early riser but he should be here soon. Yes, that must be him I can hear on the stairs.’
Looking dashing in a pale linen suit, James came down the last step just as Superintendent Fourier pushed open the hotel’s glass doors.
‘Gentlemen!’ my associate said brightly. ‘Good morning! Superintendent, I recognised your bowler hat from the window of my room. But what has happened to your bodyguard?’
‘He is at the Café de la Place Blanche,’ replied Fourier. ‘He and another of my men are under orders to take it in turns to watch the place all day.’
‘Did yesterday’s surveillance of the Surrealists’ headquarters yield anything?’ asked Lacroix.
While James and the journalist had each grabbed a chair and sat down next to me, Fourier was clearly reluctant to sit. He took off his hat and, holding it in his left hand, smoothed the long solitary lock of hair on top of his head with the other hand.
‘When I met them last night at the brasserie, my officers indicated that at about half past seven they had seen an individual who appeared to match the description provided by Suzanne Ducros.’
‘Suzanne Ducros?’ repeated Lacroix, who could not believe his ears.
‘Yes. He had all the grotesque features she described to you: top hat, long, dull white hair, round glasses and a wooden cane. He was sitting nursing a glass of beer, not far from Breton and his friends.’
‘Well! That completely confirms my theory! Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin and Andreas Eberlin are the same person. I don’t know why but it seems our man has swapped the get-up of the first character for the second.’
Lacroix’s face suddenly darkened and he looked at the superintendent with abrupt concern.
‘Was he in the brasserie when you joined your men? Did you see him?’
‘Good heavens, no, it was after half past eight when I arrived. The man had left nearly an hour earlier.’
‘What?!’ the journalist croaked. ‘Your men didn’t follow him?’
Fourier decided that the time had come to sit down. He put his hat in front of him on the table and squirmed on his seat.
‘Well … they tried. One of my men decided to follow him while his colleague stayed inside, just in case, to watch the meeting. And …’
‘And?’
‘Well, a group of customers came in just as the suspect was leaving and by the time my officer finally managed to get out of the door there was no one there. He waited in the middle of Place Blanche where he had the best view but it was impossible to tell which way the suspect had gone. Rue Blanche? Rue Fontaine? Boulevard de Clichy? Rue Lepic?’
Jacques Lacroix said nothing but you only had to look at him to know that he was silently fuming at the police and their hopeless incompetence.
‘Well, there’s nothing to prove that he
Needless to say, I was finding it very difficult to take the journalist seriously.
‘Do you think he was some mad literary historian?’ was all I said.
Lacroix laughed. ‘Possibly. Anyway, before disappearing, this man entrusted me with a document which would greatly interestyou. If we manage to solve our case, I promise I’ll show it to you.’
There was a hint of irony in his smile. A new document? Handed over by a stranger at the top of Tour Saint-Jacques? Whatever next! Lacroix must be making fun of me.
‘It’s almost time for our meeting,’ I said, changing the subject.
I compared my pocket watch with the Swiss clock behind the reception desk. My watch was three minutes faster.
‘Yes. Actually, I think our friend Fourier is just arriving. Is your partner not here yet?’
‘James is not an early riser but he should be here soon. Yes, that must be him I can hear on the stairs.’
Looking dashing in a pale linen suit, James came down the last step just as Superintendent Fourier pushed open the hotel’s glass doors.
‘Gentlemen!’ my associate said brightly. ‘Good morning! Superintendent, I recognised your bowler hat from the window of my room. But what has happened to your bodyguard?’
‘He is at the Café de la Place Blanche,’ replied Fourier. ‘He and another of my men are under orders to take it in turns to watch the place all day.’
‘Did yesterday’s surveillance of the Surrealists’ headquarters yield anything?’ asked Lacroix.
While James and the journalist had each grabbed a chair and sat down next to me, Fourier was clearly reluctant to sit. He took off his hat and, holding it in his left hand, smoothed the long solitary lock of hair on top of his head with the other hand.
‘When I met them last night at the brasserie, my officers indicated that at about half past seven they had seen an individual who appeared to match the description provided by Suzanne Ducros.’
‘Suzanne Ducros?’ repeated Lacroix, who could not believe his ears.
‘Yes. He had all the grotesque features she described to you: top hat, long, dull white hair, round glasses and a wooden cane. He was sitting nursing a glass of beer, not far from Breton and his friends.’
‘Well! That completely confirms my theory! Hans-Rudolf von Öberlin and Andreas Eberlin are the same person. I don’t know why but it seems our man has swapped the get-up of the first character for the second.’
Lacroix’s face suddenly darkened and he looked at the superintendent with abrupt concern.
‘Was he in the brasserie when you joined your men? Did you see him?’
‘Good heavens, no, it was after half past eight when I arrived. The man had left nearly an hour earlier.’
‘What?!’ the journalist croaked. ‘Your men didn’t follow him?’
Fourier decided that the time had come to sit down. He put his hat in front of him on the table and squirmed on his seat.
‘Well … they tried. One of my men decided to follow him while his colleague stayed inside, just in case, to watch the meeting. And …’
‘And?’
‘Well, a group of customers came in just as the suspect was leaving and by the time my officer finally managed to get out of the door there was no one there. He waited in the middle of Place Blanche where he had the best view but it was impossible to tell which way the suspect had gone. Rue Blanche? Rue Fontaine? Boulevard de Clichy? Rue Lepic?’
Jacques Lacroix said nothing but you only had to look at him to know that he was silently fuming at the police and their hopeless incompetence.
‘Well, there’s nothing to prove that he
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