The Predator of Batignolles: 5th Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

the other a bottle of Muscadet, glasses, plates and a bowl of frites on a tray. The waiters laid the table, carved the bird, served the wine and left.

      ‘Enjoy, Monsieur.’

      The Spaniel gave a whistle.

      ‘Well, blow me, no wonder you’re always broke if you spend your money like this, my lad,’ he mumbled, piercing a drumstick with his fork.

      ‘A smile at last! I’ve a confession: the turkey didn’t cost me a penny. But then they don’t come craftier than me!’

      Indeed, in his criminal career, Frédéric Daglan had distinguished himself in many ways – enough to make the list of the ten brightest and best brigands. He had started out as a thief, substituting fake silver for real, then became apprenticed to a confidence trickster. He possessed keen powers of observation, was a talented scout and had a fertile imagination. He was also well versed in the penal system, and had become an expert in coded language, thus avoiding any mishaps should his messages be intercepted.

      ‘So this turkey cost you nothing? How very amusing! Then tell me how you came by it,’ said the Spaniel, stuffing a huge piece of roasted skin in his mouth.

      ‘Yesterday, I was hanging around in the lobby of the Palais de Justice, waiting for a friend, and I saw His Honour Judge Lamastre, you know the fellow I mean – wields his gavel with the ease of a carpenter and sends people down for nothing! That’s when I heard him mutter to a colleague: “Damned nuisance, I left my watch at home this morning. Can’t bear not knowing the time during a hearing. And I’m on duty until late tonight: the jurors are deliberating in the high court.” His words didn’t fall on deaf ears! I’ve been hobnobbing with these law lords for years, and where they live is no secret to me. I didn’t hang about. I bought a nice fat turkey, and rang our dear Judge Lamastre’s doorbell.’

      ‘You rogue!’ bawled the Spaniel, taking a swig of wine.

      ‘A servant let me in and I told him: “I’ve come to deliver this stuffed turkey, which His Honour Judge Lamastre purchased on his way to court. It’s for lunch tomorrow. He told me that while I was at it I should fetch his chronometer, which he left at home this morning, and assured me I’d be paid for my trouble.” See how polite I can be, Monsieur.’

      ‘I see that you’re a prize scoundrel.’

      ‘The servant informed his unsuspecting mistress, Madame Lamastre, who took delivery of the turkey and handed me the watch together with a fifty-centime tip – those worthies are a stingy lot.’

      ‘What did you do with the watch, you rascal?’

      ‘I sold it sharpish, for forty francs. It was worth at least a thousand. Times are hard, Monsieur, and fences are unscrupulous in their dealings with the poor.’

      ‘And the turkey?’

      ‘Early the next day, I sent my mate to fetch it. There it was already roasting on the spit, its skin turning that golden brown which is a delight to anyone who’s fond of their food. “Quick,” said my friend, “hand over the turkey. His Honour Judge Lamastre has sent me to fetch it. The thief who stole his watch is under lock and key and the court demands to see the incriminating evidence.” This explanation seemed credible to Madame Lamastre, who swallowed it whole. She ordered the bird to be removed from the spit, and given to my chum, who hurried off, not wanting to keep the judges waiting, you understand. And how is my bird?’

      ‘Utterly delicious, you devil!’ acknowledged the Spaniel, quivering with laughter.

      He wiped his mouth and began cleaning his teeth with a toothpick.

      ‘So, can I count on you?’

      ‘When do you need your cigar holders?’

      ‘A week today, here, same time.’

      ‘That’s not much time.’

      ‘You’ll have to manage as best you can. And if anything goes wrong, mum’s the word, all right? We’ve never met.’

      ‘Rest assured, when Frédéric Daglan’s lips are sealed, the Devil himself couldn’t prise them open. Go on, drink up and eat your fill. It’d be a shame to waste such a handsome bird, especially as I can’t promise you another one next Sunday!’

       The afternoon of the same day

      The Église Sainte-Marie-des-Batignolles with its triangular pediment and Doric columns was reminiscent of a Greek temple. Beside it, an ornamental grotto, a waterfall and a tiny stream were laid out in an oasis of greenery which overlooked the railway tracks. Frédéric Daglan strolled around the miniature lake where a few ducks were splashing. Slung over his shoulder was a case with a faded coat of arms on its flap depicting a blue and gold leopard passant. He reflected on the situation: two hundred francs was a lot for stealing a few cigar holders, even if they were made of amber. What was that fat pig cooking up? He would have him tailed – he had to cover myself.

      He stopped next to a park keeper’s hut. An elderly veteran in a shabby uniform gave him a military salute.

      ‘Good afternoon, Monsieur Daglan.’

      ‘Good afternoon, Brigadier Clément. How’s life treating you? Any pickings today?’

      ‘A teat, a stick without its hoop, a knitting needle and a comic. Oh, Monsieur Daglan, the worst thing is not being able to sit down! They’re giving me the chop, you know. They say I’m too old, even though I do my job properly. After fifty you’re a burden on the state. I’ll be gone by the end of August. The missus is worried sick, what with our boy scarcely earning his crust at the Gouin machine shop, and a growing girl at home! We’ll just have to manage on the small pension they give me. By the way, the missus said to thank you for the cherries. They’re very dear this year so she was pleased as punch. She plans to make jam out of them and a special jar of cherries in brandy for you.’

      ‘Don’t mention it – they cost me nothing.’

      ‘Are you going to work, Monsieur Daglan?’

      ‘Yes, I’m going to write out the evening menus. It’s pretty straightforward. The taverners give the leftovers from lunch another name and, hey presto, tuna in sauce verte becomes tuna mayonnaise, tomatoes in butter sauce turn into stuffed tomatoes, and so on.’

      Daglan slipped the old man a coin.

      ‘Here’s a little something for you, Père Clément. And don’t worry, you won’t need to hock any of your belongings while I’m around.’

      ‘Oh no, Monsieur Daglan, no charity, please!’

      ‘Charity, Père Clément? Do you want to hurt my feelings? The path of life is strewn with obstacles. Somebody helped me once – now it’s my turn.’

       Friday 16 June

      A builder with face and hair covered in plaster dust was passing the stables owned by the Debrise Brothers, a stone’s throw from Église Saint-Denis-de-la-Chapelle. He stopped outside a bar and washed his hands at a pump where carters filled pails for watering their horses. The air smelt of fresh cheese and milk. The builder pulled down his cap, crossed the roundabout near the coal yard and walked down Rue Jean-Cottin, with its hotchpotch of buildings.

      The builder passed a boy bouncing a ball against a fence. The boy gave him a knowing look and began chanting:

       ‘General Kléber,

       At the gates of Hell

       Met a Prussian

       Who wished him well.’

      The builder gave a faint nod, and entered the courtyard of a run-down building. Slowly, he climbed the stairs up several floors. On reaching the third floor,