The Montmartre Investigation: 3rd Victor Legris Mystery. Claude Izner

and Blood.

      ‘I already told you, but I guess I’ll have to say it again because you clearly weren’t listening: I have abandoned the project.’

      ‘That seems a shame. You should have seen it through.’

      ‘That’s right, tell me I’m lazy! Well, I chose to give it up and I have my reasons, and I don’t see why I should share them with you since you’re not in the habit of sharing!’

      Victor was about to ask whether his lack of inspiration was related to Valentine de Salignac’s marriage when Kenji walked into the bookshop. He nodded briefly at Victor, reminded Joseph he had a delivery to make and went to sit at his desk, which was stacked with index cards ready for making up a new catalogue. Victor lit a cigar and exhaled a puff of bluish smoke. What was in Joseph’s notes? he asked himself Ah, yes! A dog that stole meat from some lions; lions and howling wolves …

      ‘Where might one find lions and wolves in Paris?’

      ‘In the Botanical Gardens,’ replied Kenji, burying his nose in his handkerchief. ‘You aren’t considering breeding them, are you? If you show the same enthusiasm as you do for running a bookshop, the enterprise is doomed to failure. Would you mind smoking that outside?’

      ‘What have I done to make you and Joseph gripe at me so? Well, if that’s the way you want it, I shall leave you in peace.’

      Victor buttoned up his frock coat to protect his Photo-Secret from the spitting rain. He had brought it with him to give the impression of self-assurance. He passed Hôtel de la Reine-Blanche and went down a flight of dilapidated steps. At the beginning of Rue Gobelins he paused, overcome by ammoniacal fumes. He held his breath until he reached a narrow quay where he leant on a parapet wall overlooking the River Bièvre, realm of the tanners and dyers. Shades of yellow, green and red mingled in its waters, producing a brownish-looking soup that formed here and there into a muddy froth. The water glistened with golden-brown flecks like the fish oil floating on the surface of the murky broth served up at Maubert’s cheap eateries. Victor, feeling nauseous, turned round to face a building whose ill-repaired façade was covered in inscriptions scored by knives. A heart with an arrow through it appeared to be telling him to go left.

      He obeyed without demur, turning down Passage Moret, where an incongruent cluster of rickety dwellings with wooden balconies faintly evoked Spain. People were busy at work under the hangars where the flayed hides of animals hung on ropes to dry. Scrawny-looking dogs and cats prowled the wet cobblestones observing the arrival of carts and groups of curriers.

      All along the winding river bank, washerwomen had set down their tubs by the water’s edge and were singing as they pounded their shirts. Children played at skimming stones, and one held a stick with a piece of string attached to the end, as though fishing. Victor wondered what a fish that had managed to survive in that foul water might look like. Instinctively he took out his camera to photograph the children, but he felt awkward, and so instead turned his attention to the young fisherman. He was filthy and ragged and looked no older than six. The baggy clothes he wore made him appear even scrawnier.

      ‘Are the fish biting today?’

      ‘Not a whole lot. But I did catch this,’ said the child, holding up a smoked herring.

      ‘Are you sure you caught it?’ Victor asked, amused.

      ‘Shh! I pinched it from old Mère Guédon while she was stuffing her mattress. I climbed through her kitchen window. She won’t miss it.’

      A one-eyed tomcat meowed as it came over to beg.

      ‘Get lost, Gambetta; this ain’t for no cats – it’s for Gustin.’

      ‘Is that your name? Tell me, Gustin, how would you like to earn a franc?’

      ‘Wouldn’t I half!’ cried the boy, stealing a glance at the washerwomen.

      ‘Do you know of a goatherd who lives around here?’

      ‘I certainly do. Old Père Mercier! He dosses round the corner from here.’

      ‘Show me the way.’

      They left a trail of footprints in the reddish dust as they walked through warehouses where the hide and leather goods were stored, past steaming vats and piles of acrid-smelling tanbark. Here and there, a weeping willow formed a shady corner, allowing Victor a moment’s respite from the dismal surroundings. They arrived at Rue Reculettes, where he was relieved to discover what looked almost like country cottages alongside the workers’ hovels.

      ‘That’s it, over there where it says “cobbler”. I’ve got to look sharp. If I’m late helping my brothers tan that hide I’ll be the one getting the tanning from my dad – he’s on the booze today.’

      ‘Take this.’ Victor handed him a coin, which the boy snatched greedily.

      ‘Blimey! A whole franc!’

      He wanted to ask the man if he had made a mistake, but Victor had already disappeared inside.

      Each new smell eclipses the next, thought Victor as he lowered himself on to the stool Grégoire Mercier had offered him. The man looked distinctly un-Parisian in a smock, trousers tucked into leather leggings and clogs. As he watched the goats standing meekly in a row while they were being mucked out, Victor felt as though he’d been magically transported to the heart of the Beauce region to the south of Paris.

      ‘I’ll be with you in a minute, Monsieur. There we are. It’s a rotten job. I toil like a slave all the livelong day. Thanks to these little goats and their milk, I earn my crust. Lie down, Berlaud! So you’re the owner of the bookshop? I thought you’d come about the reward. I can’t tell you any more than I told your assistant.’

      ‘There’s just one thing I wanted to clarify. Did your dog find the shoe in the Botanical Gardens?’

      Grégoire Mercier frowned, his honest brow creasing into furrows.

      ‘I don’t like to admit it, as dogs aren’t allowed,’ he murmured, stroking Berlaud’s head roughly.

      ‘Don’t worry, I shan’t tell a soul.’

      ‘Well, all right. My rounds take me there. It’s my cousin Basile from back home, Basile Popêche; he’s got kidney stones. I give him Pulchérie’s milk. She’s that one over there, second from the right, the white one with a black goatee. She’s all blown up like a balloon because she’s expecting. I mix the sapwood of a lime tree with her hay to make her milk into a diuretic.’

      ‘Oh! So your animals are a sort of walking pharmacy. Are these remedies effective?’ Victor enquired sceptically.

      ‘Ask around and you’ll find out. In any case no one must know about Basile being poorly or he’ll lose his job, which only pays a pittance anyway. He looks after the wild animals. People don’t appreciate what hard work it is, Monsieur. My goats are a piece of cake in comparison. Poor Popêche and his partner have to muck out sixty-five pens containing a hundred carnivores, plus the three bear pits. Holy Virgin, the racket is deafening! It’s back-breaking work to scrub down those floors every day. And it breaks my heart to see those poor animals caged up like that until the end of their days. At least my nanny goats go into town, and when the cold weather comes I wrap a blanket around …’

      ‘What time were you at the Botanical Gardens?’

      ‘That was yesterday, on my way from Quai de la Tournelle, so it must have been about ten or eleven o’clock. Oh, I work all hours, Monsieur! It beats being in the army, but I’ve got to keep moving if I’m to keep my customers happy. Money doesn’t grow on trees, does it? Berlaud must have found the shoe near the Botanical Gardens. That dog’s so good with my goats I put up with his fancies. When he has a yearning to run off, he won’t come to heel, no matter how much I yawl.’

      ‘Yawl?’

      ‘You know, whistle. Ah, you fickle beast, you give me the run around, but I’ll miss you when you’re gone!’ he muttered, scratching