not only signed her Christian name, she gave her full address as well. Colbeck tore up the letters so that they would not fall into anyone else’s hands.
Hers were not the only billets-doux he found in the room. A Frenchwoman, signing herself with the letter ‘D’, wrotewith even greater passion from somewhere in Paris. She was more circumspect. No address was given in her letters, only the city from where the mail was dispatched. Colbeck checked the rest of the correspondence. Business letters showed that Chabal had built himself a reputation that brought in several offers of work. One person, from England, invited him to return there in order to give some more lectures on his work as a civil engineer. The fee was tempting.
Even when working on a railway, Chabal kept an extensive wardrobe and Colbeck found a jacket identical to the one that had taken an unfortunate dip in the Sankey Canal. There were many other clues to the character of the deceased and they helped to give the inspector a full portrait of him. When he went downstairs, he found the landlady in tears, stunned by the loss of her charming lodger and horrified at the manner of his death. Colbeck told her that, once Chabal’s family and friends were informed of his demise, someone would soon come to claim his effects.
Paris was his next destination. Boarding a train at the station, Colbeck went on the short journey from Mantes, intrigued to see what had been for so many years the capital of Europe. It was a city that celebrated the arts, and composers, musicians, dancers, artists, poets and authors from many countries had flocked there in search of inspiration. Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Donizetti, Rossini, Verdi, Wagner and Heine had all resided there at one time or another. Two English authors whose novels were on Colbeck’s bookshelves back home in London – Dickens and Thackeray – had also lived in the city. It was a place of cosmopolitan talent with superb art galleries, concert halls and opera houses to display it.
Colbeck was not disappointed. Driven in a cab along its broad boulevards, he marvelled at its sumptuous architecture and tried to take in its full wonder. The buildings of Paris reflected an empire that no longer existed but that could still stir the imagination. What he noticed was the abundance of outdoor cafes, where customers were enjoying a leisurely drink in the sunshine while reading a newspaper, playing dominoes or talking with friends. Like any major city, Paris had its share of slums and Colbeck saw something of them when he was taken through a maze of back streets. The grinding poverty in the mean tenements was exacerbated by the prevailing stink of the drains.
Before he reported the death of Gaston Chabal to the police, and left them to track down his family, Colbeck wanted to visit the address that Thomas Brassey had given him for the late engineer. The detective hoped to find out a little more about the man on his own account. Once the French police were involved, he would have to surrender the initiative to them. The address was in the Marais, one of the oldest and most interesting parts of the city, and it took its name from the marshes on which it was built. When the cab pulled up in a busy street, he saw that the dead man had owned a tall, narrow house with a hint of Gothic extravagance in its façade. It was large enough to require servants, so Colbeck could expect someone to be at home.
He alighted from the cab and was immediately reminded how much taller he was than the average Frenchman. Most of those who bustled past him were distinctly shorter and had darker complexions. From the hostile glances he was given, Colbeck could see that the passers-by had guessed his nationality. He pulled the bell rope and heard it ring deepinside the house. The door was soon opened by a pretty young woman with a look of hope and expectation in her eyes. When she saw that a stranger had called, she let out a sigh.
Colbeck thought
Hers were not the only billets-doux he found in the room. A Frenchwoman, signing herself with the letter ‘D’, wrotewith even greater passion from somewhere in Paris. She was more circumspect. No address was given in her letters, only the city from where the mail was dispatched. Colbeck checked the rest of the correspondence. Business letters showed that Chabal had built himself a reputation that brought in several offers of work. One person, from England, invited him to return there in order to give some more lectures on his work as a civil engineer. The fee was tempting.
Even when working on a railway, Chabal kept an extensive wardrobe and Colbeck found a jacket identical to the one that had taken an unfortunate dip in the Sankey Canal. There were many other clues to the character of the deceased and they helped to give the inspector a full portrait of him. When he went downstairs, he found the landlady in tears, stunned by the loss of her charming lodger and horrified at the manner of his death. Colbeck told her that, once Chabal’s family and friends were informed of his demise, someone would soon come to claim his effects.
Paris was his next destination. Boarding a train at the station, Colbeck went on the short journey from Mantes, intrigued to see what had been for so many years the capital of Europe. It was a city that celebrated the arts, and composers, musicians, dancers, artists, poets and authors from many countries had flocked there in search of inspiration. Chopin, Liszt, Mendelssohn, Donizetti, Rossini, Verdi, Wagner and Heine had all resided there at one time or another. Two English authors whose novels were on Colbeck’s bookshelves back home in London – Dickens and Thackeray – had also lived in the city. It was a place of cosmopolitan talent with superb art galleries, concert halls and opera houses to display it.
Colbeck was not disappointed. Driven in a cab along its broad boulevards, he marvelled at its sumptuous architecture and tried to take in its full wonder. The buildings of Paris reflected an empire that no longer existed but that could still stir the imagination. What he noticed was the abundance of outdoor cafes, where customers were enjoying a leisurely drink in the sunshine while reading a newspaper, playing dominoes or talking with friends. Like any major city, Paris had its share of slums and Colbeck saw something of them when he was taken through a maze of back streets. The grinding poverty in the mean tenements was exacerbated by the prevailing stink of the drains.
Before he reported the death of Gaston Chabal to the police, and left them to track down his family, Colbeck wanted to visit the address that Thomas Brassey had given him for the late engineer. The detective hoped to find out a little more about the man on his own account. Once the French police were involved, he would have to surrender the initiative to them. The address was in the Marais, one of the oldest and most interesting parts of the city, and it took its name from the marshes on which it was built. When the cab pulled up in a busy street, he saw that the dead man had owned a tall, narrow house with a hint of Gothic extravagance in its façade. It was large enough to require servants, so Colbeck could expect someone to be at home.
He alighted from the cab and was immediately reminded how much taller he was than the average Frenchman. Most of those who bustled past him were distinctly shorter and had darker complexions. From the hostile glances he was given, Colbeck could see that the passers-by had guessed his nationality. He pulled the bell rope and heard it ring deepinside the house. The door was soon opened by a pretty young woman with a look of hope and expectation in her eyes. When she saw that a stranger had called, she let out a sigh.
Colbeck thought
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