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

it was time to snatch a cup of coffee. He whistled as he donned his jacket and battered hat, and stuck a cigarette in his mouth.

      The Chez Kiki café stood on the corner of Rue Chevreul and Rue du Faubourg-Saint-Antoine surrounded by grocers, charcuteries and wine merchants. A steady flow of garrulous, sharp-tongued, sharp-eyed housewives streamed in and out of these shops lit by oil lamps. On his way to the bar, Léopold greeted Josette, the dark-skinned flower girl, back from Les Halles where she had stocked up her cart. He was feeling in his pockets for a match when a man sprang from nowhere and offered him a light. As Léopold thanked him, his smile suddenly faded. The man whispered something in his ear then stepped away, lowering his arm. Léopold fell backwards. He could see a flock of sparrows flying overhead, the façades of the buildings, the sky dappled with clouds …

      His vision became blurred and his stomach throbbed. The last thing he heard before sinking into oblivion was a song:

       But the cherry season is short

       When two go together to pick

       Red pendants for their ears …

       Cherries of love all dressed alike

       Hanging like drops of blood beneath the leaves.

       Afternoon of the same day

      ‘Hell’s bells! What do you want: a juicy chop, or would you rather have thin broth?’ yelled a man dressed in breeches, stockings and a plumed hat.

      The chambermaid felt her cheeks turn red. Tears blurred her vision. She began to curtsey and almost dropped her tray, causing a cardboard chicken and some wax pears to roll around precariously.

      ‘I-I don’t understand,’ she stammered.

      ‘And yet it is quite simple, my dear,’ the gentleman retorted. ‘If you want the juicy chop – in other words, success – you’ll have to serve Henry IV, alias muggins here, with a bit more panache. Wiggle the bits that matter, front and back! Then turn to the audience and say:

       ‘Although he’s good and kind and brave

       Our sovereign’s nonetheless a knave.

      ‘I’m not asking for the moon! Stop snivelling … what’s your name again?’

      ‘Andréa.’

      ‘That’s a pretty name. Now, blow your nose, Andréa. We’ll win them over. Break for fifteen minutes.’

      Edmond Leglantier, actor and director of Heart Pierced by an Arrow, a historical play in four acts, leapt down off the stage and went to join the actors playing Maria de Medici and Ravaillac sitting in the third row.

      ‘So, what do you think, children? Will the audience be impressed?’

      ‘The claque will applaud rapturously every time the actors come on, and I’m certain the play will be a success,’ Ravaillac assured him.

      ‘Let’s hope the gods can hear you …What rotten luck! How were we to know that two other plays about the same subject would be put on this summer? They’re already advertising The Flower Seller of The Innocents8 at the Châtelet and The Doll’s House9 at Porte-Saint-Martin! And you’re in the starring role!’

      ‘Me?’

      ‘Not you, you fool – Ravaillac! Including our one, that makes three. And there I was hoping to pull out all the stops for the reopening of Théâtre de l’Échiquier.’

      Edmond Leglantier cast a dispirited eye over the Italianate auditorium whose refurbishment had plunged him up to his eyes in debt. He was staking everything on this production. If it was a flop, his creditors would be baying for his blood … Unless of course the swindle he was planning at the club paid off.

      The stage manager stuck his head over the balcony.

      ‘Pssst! Monsieur Leglantier! Philibert Dumont is looking for you everywhere. I told him you were at home.’

      ‘What a nuisance the man is! I’ll have to keep my eyes peeled. Thanks anyway.’

      ‘Who is Dumont?’ asked Maria de Medici.

      ‘The author of the play and a terrible bore. On that note, I’m going to have a quick smoke and then we’ll rehearse Act III. Sharpen your sword, Ravaillac!’

      As soon as Henry IV had left the auditorium, Andréa asked her two fellow actors, ‘What’s got into him? I’m not used to being spoken to like that!’

      ‘Well, you’d better get used to it. Monsieur Leglantier’s very tense these days,’ said Ravaillac. ‘He’s sunk every last penny into this theatre. It’s his pride and joy.’

      ‘But the theatre hasn’t even opened yet. Where does he get his money?’

      ‘A rich uncle or some shady business deals? How should I know? Apparently he’s sold a painting.’

      ‘I know where he gets it,’ said the buxom Maria de Medici. ‘At the gaming table. He goes at it with the same passion as good King Henry when he was seducing young maidens. Edmond personifies the two masks of classical theatre, laughing one minute, crying the next. If he’s splitting his sides, it means he’s winning at baccarat; if he’s grimacing, he’s been cleaned out the night before. Fortunately he laughs more often than he cries!’

      Ravaillac was surprised.

      ‘I don’t know where he finds the time. He spends hours at the theatre ordering the wardrobe mistresses about, spying on the stagehands, pestering the actors and explaining Hamlet, Le Cid or Andromaque to the extras who couldn’t give a fig!’

      ‘Oh, he finds the time all right, don’t you worry! He’s as strong as an ox, despite being fifty. It’s common knowledge that he has several mistresses. The official one is Adélaïde Paillet. She gets two nights a week and, when he’s fulfilled his obligations there, his passion for cards takes him to the club on the Boulevard. He goes on gambling, promising himself he’ll stop as soon as he makes a big win. He’s been on a winning streak the past few nights, which means his purse is full and we’ll get paid.’

      ‘Does he never stop?’ asked Andréa.

      ‘He goes to bed at dawn and gets up at noon.’

      ‘You seem to know an awful lot about him, Eugénie,’ remarked Ravaillac. ‘Anybody would think you were privy to the maestro’s secrets … Pillow talk, perhaps?’

      ‘Isn’t Maria de Medici Henry IV’s other half, clever-clogs?’

      A voice boomed, ‘Company on stage!’ and they scurried back to the boards where King Henry sat on high in an open carriage while some stagehands struggled to put up a backdrop representing Rue de la Ferronnerie, with its letter-writers’ and washerwomen’s shops.

      ‘Hey! Wake up, Ravaillac! Where’s your wig? You’re supposed to be a redhead. What on earth possessed me to hire such a ham! For heaven’s sake, you’re meant to cut my throat, not sit around jabbering with these ladies!’

      The manager’s office was on the second floor, above the foyer. As soon as the rehearsal had finished, Edmond Leglantier hurried upstairs to change. He peeled off his false beard, smothered his face in cold cream, cleaned off the greasepaint and coloured his salt-and-pepper moustache with some make-up filched from Eugénie. He crooned as he buttoned his shirt:

       ‘No m ore gaming at the table

       Ding dong! The horse is in the stable.

       A fine, handsome