Read Online In the Shadows of Paris (The Predator Of Batignolles) by Claude Izner - Free Book Online
Authors: Claude Izner
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clueless, flummoxed,’ exclaimed Joseph, who had recovered the use of his tongue.
‘Flummoxed?’ asked Helga Becker.
‘In the schwarz ,’ barked Victor.
‘There was a fire, a huge fire. The place was burnt to the ground!’ concluded Joseph.
‘I’ll go there straight away. You stay and look after the shop, and not a word to Monsieur Mori about this,’ warned Victor, pulling on his jacket and reaching for his hat and cane.
‘What shall I do if Mademoiselle Iris asks where you’ve gone?’ murmured Euphrosine, glancing at Joseph.
‘Remain as quiet as the doe in the hunter’s sights,’ Victor commanded, with an inward nod of approval to Alphonse de Lamartine for this fitting aphorism.
Madame Pignot wrinkled her mouth, flattered by the comparison. Joseph stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the beautiful half-Asian young woman in a red and white striped chiffon dress and silk ruff fastened with a black ribbon.
‘What are you worried that I might ask, Madame Pignot?’ enquired Iris, her eyes sparkling.
As he was trying to hail a cab, Victor recalled the strange creature who had caused such a sensation at the Folies-Bergère the previous winter. That will-o’-the-wisp in gossamer veils, flapping like a butterfly in the projectors’ coloured beams, reminded him of his own life. His routine was occasionally interrupted by complex choreographies à la Loïe Fuller; 22 he cavorted with the unknown, tussled with danger, only to fall back, exhausted, into the clutches of an ennui that had been the bane of his life. Only Tasha had the power to draw him out of these depressions and give his life meaning.
The traffic was inching forward. There wasn’t a cab in sight. He decided to walk. Having finally left the hubbub on Boulevard Saint-Germain, he reached Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, where he came across a sign:
ROAD CLOSED
He walked round it and arrived at what had once been the bookbinder’s shop. The firemen’s hoses had transformed the charred rubble into a boggy mess. A crack, like a grinning mouth, had spread across the wall of the adjoining building. The remains of books and half-burnt pages lay strewn across the pavement where somebody had left a pile of chairs and a trunk.
‘Any victims?’ he asked a policeman on watch.
‘Fortunately, the men at the storehouse were having lunch at Fulbert’s when the fire broke out!’
‘What about the bookbinder?’
‘He wasn’t so lucky – burnt alive.’
‘He was a friend of mine.’
‘According to the firemen what’s left of him is not a pretty sight.’
Victor shuddered inwardly; burning your finger with a match was bad enough…imagine the agony of being consumed by fire! He could only hope that Pierre Andrésy had been overcome by fumes first.
‘Does anybody know how it started?’
‘The firemen think a gas lamp probably blew out, and the poor wretch lit a pipe or a cigarette and boom! The inspector and the coroner will accompany the body to the morgue, but with all the to-do in the neighbourhood it’ll take time.’
‘I assume there’ll be an investigation?’
‘We’re expecting the detectives to arrive at any moment.’
While they were talking, Victor surreptitiously stepped over the rope cordoning off the area around the shop. The policeman held him back by his sleeve.
‘You can’t go in there, Monsieur. You might destroy vital evidence.’
‘I’m terribly upset. I just wanted to make sure that…’
‘Give me your card and if we salvage any of his personal effects we’ll let you know.’
Victor walked away slowly. Pierre Andrésy’s death had set him thinking about his own existence, which he had been deliberately avoiding. More than half his life had gone by and what had he done with it? The hours spent hunting for rare books, trawling through catalogues, outbidding other dealers at auctions appeared as meaningless to him as his numerous conquests of women – pleasurable interludes that only satisfied a sexual need.
‘Flummoxed?’ asked Helga Becker.
‘In the schwarz ,’ barked Victor.
‘There was a fire, a huge fire. The place was burnt to the ground!’ concluded Joseph.
‘I’ll go there straight away. You stay and look after the shop, and not a word to Monsieur Mori about this,’ warned Victor, pulling on his jacket and reaching for his hat and cane.
‘What shall I do if Mademoiselle Iris asks where you’ve gone?’ murmured Euphrosine, glancing at Joseph.
‘Remain as quiet as the doe in the hunter’s sights,’ Victor commanded, with an inward nod of approval to Alphonse de Lamartine for this fitting aphorism.
Madame Pignot wrinkled her mouth, flattered by the comparison. Joseph stood motionless, his gaze fixed on the beautiful half-Asian young woman in a red and white striped chiffon dress and silk ruff fastened with a black ribbon.
‘What are you worried that I might ask, Madame Pignot?’ enquired Iris, her eyes sparkling.
As he was trying to hail a cab, Victor recalled the strange creature who had caused such a sensation at the Folies-Bergère the previous winter. That will-o’-the-wisp in gossamer veils, flapping like a butterfly in the projectors’ coloured beams, reminded him of his own life. His routine was occasionally interrupted by complex choreographies à la Loïe Fuller; 22 he cavorted with the unknown, tussled with danger, only to fall back, exhausted, into the clutches of an ennui that had been the bane of his life. Only Tasha had the power to draw him out of these depressions and give his life meaning.
The traffic was inching forward. There wasn’t a cab in sight. He decided to walk. Having finally left the hubbub on Boulevard Saint-Germain, he reached Rue Monsieur-le-Prince, where he came across a sign:
ROAD CLOSED
He walked round it and arrived at what had once been the bookbinder’s shop. The firemen’s hoses had transformed the charred rubble into a boggy mess. A crack, like a grinning mouth, had spread across the wall of the adjoining building. The remains of books and half-burnt pages lay strewn across the pavement where somebody had left a pile of chairs and a trunk.
‘Any victims?’ he asked a policeman on watch.
‘Fortunately, the men at the storehouse were having lunch at Fulbert’s when the fire broke out!’
‘What about the bookbinder?’
‘He wasn’t so lucky – burnt alive.’
‘He was a friend of mine.’
‘According to the firemen what’s left of him is not a pretty sight.’
Victor shuddered inwardly; burning your finger with a match was bad enough…imagine the agony of being consumed by fire! He could only hope that Pierre Andrésy had been overcome by fumes first.
‘Does anybody know how it started?’
‘The firemen think a gas lamp probably blew out, and the poor wretch lit a pipe or a cigarette and boom! The inspector and the coroner will accompany the body to the morgue, but with all the to-do in the neighbourhood it’ll take time.’
‘I assume there’ll be an investigation?’
‘We’re expecting the detectives to arrive at any moment.’
While they were talking, Victor surreptitiously stepped over the rope cordoning off the area around the shop. The policeman held him back by his sleeve.
‘You can’t go in there, Monsieur. You might destroy vital evidence.’
‘I’m terribly upset. I just wanted to make sure that…’
‘Give me your card and if we salvage any of his personal effects we’ll let you know.’
Victor walked away slowly. Pierre Andrésy’s death had set him thinking about his own existence, which he had been deliberately avoiding. More than half his life had gone by and what had he done with it? The hours spent hunting for rare books, trawling through catalogues, outbidding other dealers at auctions appeared as meaningless to him as his numerous conquests of women – pleasurable interludes that only satisfied a sexual need.
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