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

first room was cluttered, with a mirrored wardrobe, a table, a glass-fronted bookcase, four chairs and a stove.

      The builder removed his shoes and began a meticulous search. The wardrobe contained only two jackets, a waistcoat, three pairs of trousers and two sets of bed linen. In the bedroom were an unmade bed, a pile of dirty laundry and a slop bucket. He lifted the mattress quickly. The tension in his face eased as his eye alighted on a brown briefcase in the middle of the bed base. He pulled a bundle of documents out of it and studied them closely. He froze in amazement.

      ‘Good God! The dirty …!’

      His throat tightened; he could scarcely breathe. He tried to stifle his mounting rage. Stay calm, he told himself.

      Outside the boy squawked:

       ‘Who left the people to rot?

       That was Riquiqui’s lot.’

      The builder drew back the curtain. Two women stood chattering in the courtyard.

      He put everything back in its place and, checking that he’d left no traces, picked up his shoes and went out. After clicking the latch behind him, he started back down the stairs.

      At the bottom, Frédéric Daglan tied his shoelaces, his hands shaking.

       Saturday 17 June

      At lunchtime there was no one left in the shops on Rue de la Paix. A wave of clerks and female workers headed for the cheap eateries on the Boulevards. Dressmakers, salesmen, seamstresses and clerks jostled one another, pushing past the cashiers from Crédit Lyonnais who were enjoying a smoke in the doorways of the restaurants where they would feast on boiled beef and bacon stew. A pair of constables eyed up the apprentice dressmakers in their white blouses, black skirts and coloured ankle boots forced onto the road by the crowds. A laundress paused in a doorway, took a croissant and a slab of chocolate out of her bag and began eating, oblivious to the bawdy comments of a housepainter sitting astride his stepladder. Gradually, the neighbourhood fell silent. The only people left were a news vendor sitting in her kiosk, a bread roll on her lap; a concierge sweeping the pavement vigorously; and a lad in an apron listlessly cleaning a jeweller’s shop window under the watchful eye of a constable.

      A donkey and cart pulled up next to the constable. The driver, a youth of seventeen or eighteen, doffed his cap.

      ‘Excuse me, Constable, could you direct me to Bridoire’s Jeweller’s, please?’

      ‘It’s right here,’ said the copper, pointing at the shop window, which the lad in the apron had just finished cleaning.

      ‘Bother, it’s closed! I was supposed to deliver a crate here this morning. I won’t have time this afternoon. What if I leave it in the doorway? Nobody would dare steal it with you around …’

      The constable paused, scratched his head then nodded.

      ‘All right, son. The shop assistants will be back at one thirty.’

      Together they heaved the crate up against the shop door.

      ‘It weighs a ton. What have you got in there, lead?’ asked the policeman.

      ‘It’s marble. Much obliged to you!’

      The cart moved off down Rue Gaillon, briskly overtaking two cabs and an omnibus, then turned into Rue de Choiseul.

      Constable Sosthène Cotret discharged his mission with remarkable zeal considering he stood to gain nothing. In the meantime he allowed himself the pleasure of contemplating an amber smoking kit, which was displayed next to a gold-plated tumbler and a set of sapphire jewels. He pictured himself blowing smoke rings into Inspector Pachelin’s face, and imagined his superior gazing enviously at Madame Julienne Cotret wafting through the police station in a sparkling tiara.

      He was so rapt in his daydream that he didn’t notice the same cart pulling up three quarters of an hour later. The young delivery man had to tap him on the shoulder, immediately apologising for his forwardness.

      ‘I only delivered the wrong blooming crate, didn’t I? My boss almost killed me! I’ve brought the right one this time. Would you mind helping me swap them over?’

      They replaced the first crate with the second. Sosthène Cotret’s joints groaned under the strain and he cursed his bad luck for being allotted this beat.

      ‘Blimey, what a weight! Is this marble, too?’

      ‘Yes. The difference is this one’s red and the other one’s black. Much obliged, Constable.’

      Sosthène Cotret cursed as he rubbed his aching back, knowing that his blasted sciatica would soon make him pay for his obliging nature.

       Monday 19 June

      Perched on his stepladder behind the counter at the Elzévir bookshop, 18 Rue des Saints-Pères, Joseph Pignot, bookshop assistant, was reading aloud from Le Passe-partout for the benefit of his boss, Victor Legris, who was paying little attention to what he considered a trivial news items.

      ‘… It was at one thirty that the shop assistants of Bridoire’s Jeweller’s noticed the break-in. Curiously, only smoking accessories had been stolen. Why had the thieves ignored the diamond bracelets, precious pearls, watches and valuable silver and gold pieces? Equally puzzling is the fact that policeman Sosthène Cotret, who was on duty in Rue Daunou at the time, saw nothing – despite claiming that he didn’t take his eyes off the shop window. The authorities should supply him with a pair of spectacles!

      When the second crate was opened it was found to contain nothing but sand.

      According to Inspector Pachelin, the burglar must have hidden in the first crate, which had a removable side. He then cut a disc-shaped hole in the door of the jeweller’s just wide enough for him to enter the shop. Having grabbed the loot, he climbed back into the crate, replaced the wooden disc and covered his traces with putty and a paint containing drying agent. All he had to do then was wait until his accomplice came back to swap the crates.

      ‘Clever, isn’t it, Boss? Still, it seems like a lot of trouble to go to for a few cigar holders and pipes!’

      Glancing up from his newspaper, Joseph was dismayed to see Victor absorbed in reading the order list.

      ‘You’re not listening.’

      ‘You’re wrong there, Joseph. I’m hanging on your every word. This crime reminds me of Hugo de Groot’s4 daring escape.’

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Hugo de Groot – a seventeenth-century Dutch lawyer who was imprisoned for life in Loevestein Castle. Escape seemed impossible. He was allowed books, which he devoured in such quantities that they had to be ferried in and out in a trunk. Two years into his incarceration, Hugo decided to try his luck. He climbed into the trunk and managed to escape. You see how reading brings freedom, Joseph.’

      ‘Yes … but I don’t see what that has to do with cigar holders?’

      ‘Nothing … Aren’t you supposed to be delivering a copy of Pierre Maël’s5 Honour and Country to the Comtesse de Salignac?’

      ‘I’ve already been there, and it wasn’t any fun! I see you have great faith in me! You’re getting a bit tyrannical, Boss!’

      Joseph, furious, snatched up a pair of scissors and cut out the article, muttering to himself. ‘The boss should learn to hold his tongue. If this goes on much longer, I’ll be off to greener pastures.’

      ‘Believe me, Joseph, you’d soon tire of the countryside; nothing can compare to the thrill of the city. I’m sorry if I upset you – I didn’t intend to.’

      ‘You’re